


There are Stones in my Stomach and Worms on my Plate

by TheArchaeologist



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Body Dissociation, But It Is Mentioned In Passing, Drama, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Family Feels, Five Centric, Five Whump, Food Issues, Gen, Good Brother Ben Hargreeves, Good Brother Klaus Hargreeves, Good Sister Vanya Hargreeves, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Graphic Descriptions, Number Five | The Boy Has Issues, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Protective Siblings, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sibling Bonding, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18352262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: If you ever need a crash diet, try the apocalypse. It is fat free, dairy free, lacking in all the vital vitamins and minerals, and totally organic.After all, look at Five. Weeks after stopping the apocalypse and he still can’t finish a plate of food.





	1. Chapter 1

When they were about seven, maybe eight, Diego and Luther formed an unlikely bond over junk TV survival shows.

It was kind of infuriating, because they all had these dramatic opening themes that were both complete earworms but also impossible to hum. They were stuffed with too many drums, more symbol crashes than necessary, and excessive in their overblown explosion sound effects to match their extreme visuals.

Vanya had called them noise rather than music, and Five had been inclined to agree.

Still, the use of the TV was somewhat a novelty in the Hargreeve household, and if it was on, they would watch it, terrible theme tunes and all. If the programme was something only half of them wanted to see, then the other half would occupy themselves until it was their turn. 

Klaus always had a magazine or two lying around, and if not his nail polish. Allison would practice manicures. Vanya would doodle music notes. Ben and Five would share books. Luther would do press-ups in the corner. Diego would test his knife throwing skills.

They had a system, and it had worked. It was one of the few times they had ever been able to fully cooperate as a family without arguing or hitting or annoying each other.

Which is how Five knew that those survival shows were wrong.

They made assumptions, that the things they demonstrated were available to the survivor, that they could easily be found, that the air would be _breathable_ in the first place.

Five would like to see any of those airbrushed stars march for several hours in a world filled with ash.

But the worse slap in the face had been the food.

According to those shows, Five should have been hunting mammals and birds, or fishing in rivers, ponds, oceans, for protein. He should have sought out the environments where things grew naturally and made use of the resources around him. Branches and thorns for rods, fibres for traps, vines for nets, and so on and so forth.

Which is great if you lived in a world _with_ those things, but unfortunately for Five the universe thought it was funny to give him a means of obtaining knowledge for such situations, and then throwing it to the wind with a harsh cackle.

What do you do in a world where the only living things are the bugs and bacteria feeding off decaying human flesh?

Like he said, assumptions.

“Five?”

At least he never resorted to cannibalism.

The hand on his shoulder startles him, making his chair scrape harshly on the dining room floor. All heads turn to him automatically, the casual chatter of dinner quieting as his siblings pause to stare at him as if he was a tightrope walking monkey on display in the middle of a circus.

He glares, his jaw set.

“What?” Five snaps, ignoring the curl of something putrid as Vanya retreats, retracting her hand so it rests on her lap. Across the table Allison’s gaze flitters between them, and shit, that’s her ‘Mom Look’, as Klaus as dubbed it.

He has been on the receiving end of far too many Mom Looks lately for his liking.

Vanya presses on. “Are you ok?”

Five wants to bite at her again, to allow his harsh, abrasive words to claw past his teeth, but this is Vanya, and his whole family is _right here_ , and they have suffered through so many family meetings on trust and friendship and other sickly-sweet things the last few weeks. 

So instead Five swallows his damn pride. He is fifty-eight, he can handle a little…Whatever this is. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She, annoyingly, studies him, and he does his best to smile it away, and even to him it comes across as strained.

Klaus snorts. “Whatever you say, old man.”

If this conversation continues much longer then someone _will_ have a knife in their skull, and Five is half tempted to make that himself.

He fixes Vanya with a look. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, um,” She hesitantly returns to her cutlery, wisely backing down as she fumbles under the attention. “Just about some of my lessons, I thought it would be nice to do a little concert for the students, it would give them a chance to get to know each other and show off what they’ve learnt.”

There is a twist in Five’s old, beaten heart, because that is so _Vanya_ , so much like his gentle, quiet sister who used to hold his hand when she got scared and peek into his room at night.

Allison’s eyes are still fixated on him, but she says, “That’s a lovely idea.”

Vanya brightens. “You think?”

“Go for it.” Klaus pipes up.

“You could do it here.” Diego thinks aloud, “Clean the place up a bit, make it all…” He waves a vague hand, “Concert-y.”

“Concert-y?” Allison smirks, and _finally_ her attention is dragged away as Five’s siblings start to warmly bicker among themselves.

Luther joins the fray, carefully adding the idea of letting the students bring one or two guests with them. It is a stilted, forced suggestion, but ever since the incident in the basement he has been trying, and the way Vanya shifts beside Five tells him she appreciates it.

Tuning the noise out is easy, and soon no one paying attention to the way Five picks at his food, eating far too slowly for someone his age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, Five is *not* anorexic, he just ate small amounts in the apocalypse and is finding it hard to adjust.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 
> 
> A.K.A. Five's daily battle.

It is not that he does not _want_ to eat, it is that he _cannot._

Not in a terrible anorexic sort of way, the kind he had learnt about as he read his way through the entire library. That had been a surprise, finding books on conditions both physical and mental, but Dad had been nothing if not complex, and Five was sure that if he took the time to sit down and try to pick that man apart all he would get is a migraine.

But still, the food.

They just keep giving him too much.

Five tries to stop it, because seeing it grow cold and tasteless on his plate makes his stomach turn in annoyance. Of all people he _knows_ what it is like to go hungry, and humans waste so much of it to begin with. He has seen the articles, he has read the papers, he knows how supermarkets dump vegetables that are not perfect-looking or give things Best Before dates that make them ‘expire’ way too early.

The best days are when they have dinner buffet-style, whether that be through the fact that they have little in the kitchen so just make up the meal out of odds and ends, or through take out where it is a free-for-all, and everyone is taking everything for each other’s plates. Those days Five can handle, because it gives him the freedom to take what he wants and leave the rest to the others.

But Mom likes to cook, and Allison and Klaus like to help her.

Diego says he is helping, but they all know he is more interested in licking the spoons or snatching bits that are not supposed to be eaten yet. He is shouted at a lot.

Five rarely minds, and strategically places his waiting plate in full reach of his brother.

They do not always dine together. Vanya comes and goes depending on what lessons she has that day, and Allison is still working out her custody battles with Claire. Diego has his own apartment, which he prefers to use because apparently, “You guys cramp my style.”

Klaus was lucky to dodge the knife after the, “What style?” comment. Apparently, Ben had found it hilarious.

Which is why it makes those dinners where they are all present seem all the more important, why those dinners in particular are given the care and attention they deserve.

It makes Five feel like a fussy toddler.

But he is caught between a rock and a hard place. 

Either he confesses and has to spend hours relaying exactly what he ate in the apocalypse, how often, and what he did to last those days without, or he attempts to cover it over, pretend that yes, he can manage the adult serving he has been given, thank you so much for this wonderful meal.

Five fucking hates being a kid.

It was bad enough whenever a waitress hands him the children’s menu, even if he secretly knows that half of one of those meals would be enough for him.

His options are pity, humiliation, or forcing himself to eat what he can and hide the rest.

He chooses the latter.

To make up for it, he starts switching up his other meals. Breakfast is breakfast and happens sporadically throughout the morning as they all trudge downstairs, so Five takes to waking before the others and eating a single slice of toast while no one else is around. He has always been an early riser anyway, so no one questions the fact that he is clearing away his plate as they arrive.

Lunch is trickier, but doable. 

There is no set time, especially for those with jobs, so Mom just leaves out a few bits and bobs and people help themselves. Five learnt years ago that above the kitchen is a storage closet, so he hides in there until he can hear the kitchen empty and then jumps down to grab an apple, or a sandwich if it is a particularly gruelling day and he needs the calories.

It is still not great, but it gives him more room for dinner, at least. None of his siblings are questioning anything, and by now he is the master of dropping bits of food into the napkin he conceals on his lap, stuffing it into his pocket and whisking it away at the earliest possible continence.

Thank God for coffee.

Well, perhaps not _God_ , because so far God has done nothing for any of them, but thank someone, at least.

That is the one thing the others are aware of, which is unsurprising considering that Five never actively tried to hide his addiction anyway. He allowed it to get a bit out of control in that first week before the apocalypse, he will admit, but to be fair he had been in a rush, and power naps or long dozes on the couch were the last thing on his mind.

It had taken him getting hit by a sharp of shrapnel to force him to rest, but that was beside the point.

Coffee is what keeps him going, when he can get hold of it, at least.

One of many really shit things about being a kid again are the age limitations. R-rated films are a no-no, much to the amusement of Klaus and Diego, and they have to avoid certain bars because they did not allow anyone under the age of sixteen inside. 

Buying coffee varies between shops, larger supermarkets not caring so long as it is not alcohol, cigarettes, or knives, but smaller chains with a single owner scrutinising him as if he had just tried to purchase a dead baby. Often, he must lie and say it is for his Dad. Isn’t he sweet boy, helping his Father?

Dad could be used as bedding in a pigsty for all he cares.

But by far the most infuriating of the lot, however, was attempting to purchase anything remotely in the shape of pills. It was an outright nightmare, in fact.

Vitamins, for example.

He had ended up in a full-blown argument with a cashier. The snot-nosed brat was lucky Five had at least an element of self-control.

Finding the remains in of a pharmacy in the apocalypse had a lifeline for him, one that was often worth celebrating with whatever drop of drink Five had managed to salvage over the weeks. Medication, bandages, disinfectant, and, more importantly, supplements. 

The human body was not designed to do harsh manual labour with little food intake, but the human body was also not designed to survive the end of the world either, so there was that. Rationing could only be spread so thin before things started to go fuzzy around the edges, until he began blacking out and waking on the charred earth after an indeterminable amount of time.

The pills were not food, he knew that, and he never pretended that they were. His stomach would still ache and groan, demanding what Five could not provide, and there were still days in those early years where he found himself doubled over, clutching his abdomen and trying not to cry to save of dehydration.

However, they did give him a bit of what he needed to get from A to B. They supplied his organs with a little of what they required to function, just enough for him to muster the energy to walk and built and start a fire to cook whatever canned monstrosity he had found for dinner that night. 

They were not great, but survival was survival, and a body would only take so much before it gave in. The longer Five could save off the ‘giving in’ part, the better.

At least here, out of the apocalypse and back in the mansion, they are no longer a _must have_ , just a preference.

He still has his missions into the kitchen, and it is not like the food he is eating now is random and has been forced to last for years passed its expiry date. 

What he has _is_ nutritional, just…Minimal. 

It is formed from years of having a tiny diet. That does not simply vanish away in a cloud of magic just because he is home. The vitamins are just to make sure he is getting everything he needs, because only having a single meal of dinner hardly contains what he should be having as a daily intake.

He is being _responsible._

 

Five hates to say it, but it is easy to forget about Ben.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing escapes Ben, Five. Ask Klaus, he would know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five's morning routine.

The problem with Klaus is, he is observant.

Or perhaps Ben is the observant one, and Klaus is simply the messenger they all shoot, but the fact remains, if anyone is going to notice anything, and be stupid enough to mention it, then it will be Klaus.

Since getting sober, he has becoming annoying in the fact that he has stopped blurting out every goddamn thing that comes to mind, meaning unless he decides to bring it up, it can be extremely difficult to work out how much their brother knows, exactly what he knows, and for how long he has known it.

It had been Klaus who pointed out that Luther, spending the longest with Dad, was probably to some degree brainwashed to be loyal to the man. It was not an excuse, just a reason.

It had been Klaus who noticed Diego’s quiet moments following the death of the policewoman who Five never fully learnt the name of, and he had stumbled upon them talking it over at night several times.

It had been Klaus who had suggested doing up a room for Claire, and helped Allison go shopping for wallpaper and paint which seemed to litter the house for weeks until the room was finally finished.

For Five, his ‘Klaus is a loving menace’ session starts at breakfast.

Taking into account that Diego and Luther, the only other early risers, tend to appear around seven o’clock, Five enters the kitchen at half-past six. This gives him plenty of time to eat the amount he wants unnoticed, slip the vitamin in his pocket, and crack on with the day.

It was only the fact that Klaus mutters something moments before Five enters that saves him from jumping out of his skin.

“We _eat_ on there.” He automatically scolds, frowning heavily at the pair of dirty feet propped up on the table. “Jesus, Klaus, at least wear socks or something.”

Klaus flashes him a winning smile, broad and cheeky and the one he always uses when he is working on a secret, which the second giveaway that something is up.

The first is that Klaus is up at half-six in the morning.

“And a good morning to you, brother-o-mine.” He sing-songs, tipping his chair in a way that teeters between balancing and falling. If Five was a betting man, he would already be calculating what will cause Klaus to crack his head open, the side cabinet or the floor.

Stalking across the room towards the coffee machine, Five flicks it on, a low rumble entering into the quietness. The weight of his vitamin drags heavy in his pocket. There is no way he will be able to sneak it with Klaus around, because Klaus meant _Ben_ , and it was impossible to know where their deceased brother was lurking.

“What are you doing up this early anyway? You’re normally a, what, ten, eleven kind of guy?”

“Aw, you’re an eleven kind of guy too.” Klaus croons, totally avoiding the subject.

Five ignores him, only watching out of the corner of his eye as he mechanically selects a single slice of bread from the breadbin and slots it into the toaster.

Yawning, Klaus stretches like a cat, his bones audibly clicking as the chair wobbles dangerously. “So, what’s the plan for today, then?”

“Well, _I'm_ going clothes shopping with Vanya, I don’t care about what you’re up to.”

In truth, he does not want to go. 

The actual clothes shopping would be tedious, but necessary. He can only stay in their old uniforms for so long before it becomes a problem, something that Five had accepted weeks ago but simply had no chance to rectify until today. He was hardly swimming in money as it was, having relied on the Commission throughout his career to pay for his expenses.

What he is not looking forward to is lunch. 

Vanya had said they could get eat out, which meant going to a diner, or a café, which meant her _paying_ for his meal and then being close enough to properly watch him eat it. In such an environment carefully dropping his food into a napkin would be picked up in moments, by his sister or the staff. 

There is no escaping it, either he must leave a large amount or eat the entire meal.

Five had only wanted coffee this morning, something to wash his pill down because he sucked at taking them dry and the last time he had attempted to do so he had nearly choked to death amongst the rubble of the library, Delores blissfully unaware on the other side of the building as he hacked and wheezed.

The choking had made him vomit, which meant he had lost everything he had eaten and drunk that day.

He should have just got a goddamn glass from the bathroom.

“Clothes shopping?” Klaus immediately perks, waving away what Five assumes is Ben leaning over his shoulder. “Can I come?”

The toast Five never wanted pings, popping out of the machine. Five takes it numbly, and it burns at his fingertips. “We’re not planning on spending _hours_ there, Klaus. I just need some things and we may have lunch-”

Klaus stands from the chair (huh, Five would have lost that bet then, what a shame) and hovers around Five like a persistent bee, following him on his trip to the fridge and back for the butter, and then to the cutlery draw. 

Five scrapes up the least amount of spread he can manage, slowly smearing it across the hardened bread. It melts under the heat, sinking in sickly and making his stomach churn. The smell is no better, rich and stifling the room.

If he eats this _and_ lunch, then there is no way he will be able to handle the big family dinner planned for tonight.

The chicken carcass is already in a dish on the side, defrosting for later.

“ _Please_ , my favourite brother! I’ll get socks!” Klaus compromises, something that Five finds particularly amusing because he waves Ben off again as he says it, clearly completely forgetting his original purpose of being down here and nosing in on Five’s business. “And slippers, do you want me in slippers, would that be better?”

Vanya had lessons on this afternoon, so she wanted them to get away early. They had planned to meet at eight, and it is nearing seven now.

Diego and Luther always use the bathrooms for seven, and Diego tends to spend a good forty minutes in there. 

A plan ticks over in his head.

“Well, we’re leaving at eight.” Sticking the knife into the sink, Five fixes Klaus with his best nonchalant expression. “So, if you want to shower before you go, best do it now before our brothers use up all the hot water.”

A bright smile stretches across Klaus’ face, one that makes the subtle manipulation taste bitter against his tongue, and he blows Five a kiss before rushing off, the door swinging in his wake. It creaks on its hinges, at if laughing at Five’s expense.

The coffee machine finishes with a final rattle, and Five silently pours himself a cup, the steam tickling his skin as he brings it up to taste. He wrinkles his noise, because apparently the house has slipped back to using the shit stuff again, but takes a second gulp anyway.

He uses the third to wash down his vitamin, blowing off the piece of lint from his pocket and the pill bouncing around his throat on the way down.

The toast is buried in the bin, the guilt of waste gnawing his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Ben, Klaus heard shopping and that was that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get in, loser, we're going shopping!

The shopping trip goes, unsurprisingly, far slower with Klaus tagging along.

Apparently, he needs a new skirt, and then another new skirt, and then armfuls of socks and slippers because Five had ‘bullied him’ that morning. Vanya, Five’s glorious, brilliant sister, takes it in her stride, setting Klaus a strict budget as she not so subtly steers Five towards the back of the store.

Allison is probably praising them back at home, at least, because she will finally be able to call the things in her wardrobe _hers_ again. It is a well-known fact in the Hargreeves household that unless you lock your things away then Klaus _will_ steal them. Vanya only escaped through living in an entirely different building, though Five suspects that if she gave him a key that would soon change.

The store Vanya has decided on is noisy, packed with weekend shoppers who sweep through like a tornado, dislodging things from their proper place and depositing them in messy heaps miles away. The workers all have the same, dead-eyed expression that comes with working retail, and they stare numbly as Five is frogmarched along the isles.

Strangely enough, Five has seen that look on assassins as well. The blankness, the monotone voice, the sensation of the body moving on autopilot. 

He decides not to dwell on it, grimacing as they enter the section for thirteen to fifteens.

Five hates every single item there.

“I hate every single item here.”

“They’re not that bad.” Vanya tries, picking up a sweater from the rack. It is plain red, with a motorbike splattered across the front. “You haven’t even looked yet. Give it a chance, ok? I know you tastes are more…” He trails off, and Five’s stare is unwavering as he dares her to say anything negative. “Formal.” She settles on. “But kid suits are expensive, and I do have to pay rent.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Five crosses his arms, his jaw setting.

Vanya is buying clothes for him, in her own time and using her own money. She does not have to; she could force any one of their siblings to help fork out cash if she really wanted. Out of all of them, Allison is the person with the most deposable income. 

But she is not. 

Swallowing down the lump of emotions that swell in his throat, he nods towards the sweater. “Not that though.”

She puts it back. “Ok, not this.”

He ends up going for the plainest, cheapest items he can find. Vanya is unimpressed, trying to convince him for things that are softer, casual, more comfortable, but after ten minutes she finally relents, and allows Five to trek off to the changing rooms with three blue polo shirts (though he gives two to her because they are all the same, so if one fits so will the others), a green t-shirt, a sweater, and two pairs of jeans.

Both the jeans fit fine, so he grabs the t-shirt and slips it over his head, his hair messing terribly.

“How’s it going?” Vanya calls.

Five pulls back the curtain, plastering on his best, well-behaved grin. It makes his cheeks feel stiff, but Vanya does not seem to notice. She raises an eyebrow from where she is perched on the edge of a strategically placed chair, eyeing over the outfit critically. 

In the background Five can see Klaus emerging from one of the isles, no doubt Ben trailing somewhere behind. He weaves through the hords of shoppers, some turning to stare rudely at Klaus as he passes by. Five wonders if he notices.

“That works.” Vanya says, nodding. “Though those jeans seem a little big.”

“A belt will be fine.” He brushes off. “And Mom can hem them.”

“Ok. Have you tried the polo shirt?”

Five shrugs, only now noticing that the jeans do not have the same satisfactory deep pockets that the uniforms have. “Not yet, but considering it’s pretty much the same as this,” He tugs at the shirt for emphasis. “It’ll fit. And the sweater. Will that do?”

Vanya huffs a displeased sigh as Klaus strolls up, a basket full knick-knacks and material in one hand. “Those are only four outfits, Five. You need quite a bit more than that. And some trainers.”

“Looking snazzy bro!” Klaus offers, gaze darting up and down as Five glowers. “Though clearly you’re the plain Jane of the family.”

“We can’t all be divas, Klaus.”

Klaus settles a hand over his heart, faking a wounded expression. “I’m hurt, and here I was offering words of encouragement. Got something for you to try, by the by.” Tugging out a mess of black fabric from the bottom of his basket and plucking off a few stray sparkles, Klaus tosses it to him. 

Five catches it easily, holding it up before fixing him with a scowl. “Seriously?”

Klaus grins innocently, gesturing to the empty spot beside him. “Ben saw it!”

Oh-

Oh, that _bastard._

They are all weak to the Ben card, Five, reluctantly, included. 

He seethes, jaw cracking, before snapping on his heels and sliding the curtain across with far too much force. The metal rings clank loudly, and he forcefully tugs the t-shirt off, flinging it on the small stool stood in the corner.

Screw Klaus and his stupid, infuriating, no good-

“Did you see his arms?”

Pausing with the top halfway over his head, Five listens, straining to hear over the tinny music bursting from the shop speakers. The person in the next changing room is chatting to someone over the phone, comparing dresses for a party. Five wants nothing better than to yell at them to shut up.

There’s a little pause, and then Vanya asks, hushed, “What about them?”

“They’re like that.” Five can only imagine Klaus is demonstrating something. “He’s not been eating, either.”

“You’ve noticed?”

“Ben says he’s been taking pills.”

“Pills?”

“Yeah.”

“What…” Vanya’s tone is incredibly controlled. “What kind of pills?”

Klaus is very quiet for a very long time, and briefly Five wonders if they realised that he has stopped changing to listen. Thank whoever designed these rooms for making the curtain reach the floor. 

“I don’t know.” Klaus finally admits, sounding strained. “He hasn’t _acted_ high, but-”

Yanking the top down the rest of the way, Five opens the curtain and fixes them both with his best, most menacing grin. Klaus has squatted down beside Vanya so they are closer together, the basket abandoned on the floor, and they both flinch apart at his appearance, Vanya looking guilty while Klaus plasters a pleased expression across his face.

“There. You’ve seen me in it. Now, take it back and let’s go.”

“But-”

“No.”

“ _Ben-_ ”

He drags the curtain closed. “He’s a big boy, he’ll survive.”

It is only as he is changing back into his clothes that Five realises that might have been a poor choice of words, but considering that Ben is tied to _Klaus_ of all people he can only imagine that his brother has heard far worse over the years.

Klaus tries to sneak the ‘Daddy’s little Devil’ shirt through the checkout, but under pain of foot stomping he leaves it on a random shelf for some poor worker to find and sort out.

“So,” Klaus claps his hands together, “Lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben, in regards to 'picking out the shirt': "No, I didn't."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunchtime!

Five stares at the menu.

_Shit._

He had been hoping that they would go to a diner, someplace where he could order waffles or pancakes but request them to leave most of the toppings using the apocalyptic-twinkie excuse. When it came to the apocalypse his siblings are surprisingly malleable, and so long as Five keeps the facts straight, the logic sound, and the emotional turmoil something he can play up with wounded, large eyes, they never question it.

However, Vanya had other ideas, taking them to a nice little place she knew just around the corner from the shopping centre that had less commercial traffic and more regulars, making for a gentle, comfortable atmosphere.

Comfortable for everyone except Five.

All the options are things that came with something else. Burgers with fries. Baguettes with salads. Jacket potatoes with cheese and beans. There is nothing plain, everything using locally sourced produce or special seasonings, and each with a description that is at least three sentences long.

All of it is filling, all of it is _far too much_ for him. He could manage perhaps the salad part, or half the burger if he pushes it, but he is still just so unused to such a large amount of food, particularly in one day.

Plus, they had dinner tonight.

The thought of the roast chicken makes his stomach swirl dangerously, and he wills it away as Klaus ponders loudly what he wants. Vanya is mentioning stopping at a bookshop on the way back, going on about an author she likes, and Five _wants_ to listen, because she is his sister, his severely neglected sister, and he is interested in the things she finds interesting, even if he would never touch those things with a twelve-foot pole.

But he cannot, because he must pick something, and he has no idea what the best thing is to choose for someone with a poor appetite. 

Fuck, it is almost enough to make him wish for the bugs again.

Their waitress walks over, her heels clacking on the wooden floor, and asks for their drink requests. Klaus goes for a milkshake, Vanya tea, and Five bites his tongue through his black coffee order to save the waitress from losing her head.

Klaus snorts as she walks away. “That will never not be funny.”

Five kicks him in the shins, resulting in a satisfactory yelp.

“Boys.” Vanya says in warning, though her lips are tilted up, the traitor. “So, what are you having, Five?”

The stutter he holds in is incredible. “Probably a baguette.” Bread is filling but it is better than the other options. He can get away with leaving the salad and claim to be a picky teenage eater. “You?”

“The same, the brie and bacon one. I always get that.” She grins a little to herself, setting down her menu on the table. “Which one are you having?”

Why has Klaus not interrupted with something stupid? Why has the waitress not delivered their drinks? Why hasn’t anyone set the fire alarm off?

Five and luck just do not go together.

“Just ham.” Because it is the one with the least number of fillings. He clears his throat. “Klaus?”

Klaus pauses his hushed conversation with thin air, looking disgruntled. “Well, _I_ want the burger and fries, but Ben is apparently desperate to see what the, uh,” He squints at the menu, reading off, “Lime and mushroom soup is all about. Even though he can’t eat. Or taste. Or has the right to _nag me_.”

“Why not both?” Vanya pipes up, “We could all share the soup.”

Oh _fuck_ no.

“Nah, I’m good on the soup front, thanks.” He says gracelessly, but he needs to dive in quick before they start pushing him into having even more things that he has no desire to eat. The threat of dinner looms heavily over him, so he adds, “Me and mushrooms? Not a good mix.”

Vanya frowns, something else bright in her eyes, something questioning. “You liked them before?”

She does not need to elaborate before what.

He shrugs, the frustration that he is, once again, the centre of their goddamn attention building in burning itches under his skin. “Yeah, well, once you’ve seen mushrooms growing in place you would rather not see, it does put you off for life.”

It is only a moment later he realises that might sound like a vague reference to something else entirely, but his siblings take it as it was intended. It is hardly a lie either, after a few weeks the bodies Five stumbled across did tend to…Sprout.

Still, strike two for manipulation for the day.

If he was not hungry before, he certainly is not now.

Klaus and Vanya are watching at him in that sad, pitying way that haunts Five no matter where he goes or who he talks to, and the subject gets completely dropped in favour of an awkward silence. It is broken when the waitress returns with their drinks, taking their food orders and whisking the menus away.

Five seems to have put them both (or all three of them, if Ben is reacting the same way) off the soup.

Good.

“So,” He starts, clearing his throat. “What lessons do you have this afternoon?”

Vanya blinks at him, and then smiles gently, the silence easily falling away into a comfortable conversation on the parade of school children she will have visiting one after the other. Klaus makes a comment on the concert, and soon they are deep in discussion, pondering dates and whether they should serve snacks or not.

Five lets the conversation fall over him, allowing himself to melt away into the background. From his position by the window opposite Vanya and Klaus, he can see the waitress organising their plates onto a tray, talking through an open door towards the kitchen.

The baguettes do not seem _that_ big, perhaps he will be able to manage it.

He nods in a mimic of gratefulness as they are delivered, glaring at his plate as if it had personally offended him while Vanya thanks the woman and Klaus abandons cutlery in favour of just stuffing as much of his burger into his mouth as he can.

Their sister scoffs, glancing around to make sure none of the other customers have noticed. “Hungry, then?”

“Always.” He replies with a mouthful, making Five wrinkle his nose as he hesitantly starts on his.

It is nice, it really is, Five can see why Vanya comes here often, why they attract so many regulars, but the sauce amongst the ham curdles in his stomach, and the salad tastes like bland, dried leaves left in the dirt for too long.

Maybe if he goes slow, it will be ok. Vanya is not a fast eater, Five can pace himself off her.

Maybe.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up all those permanently put off mushrooms?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding-ding goes the dinner bell

Five was raised to show no weakness. 

Growing up that meant a fierce competitive streak, carefully festered within them all until competitiveness was practically rooted in their DNA. They all had it, even Vanya to a far lesser extent, stemmed her constant desire to better them at _something._

It made them all prone to arguments. It allowed mere tiffs to become fistfights, and for harsh words to be spat, and clawed, and scratched, on either side.

If your target sees you stumble, you are dead.

If you mess up your landing when you burst in, you are dead.

If you allow yourself to be overpowered, you are dead.

That was the way it was with Dad. There were no soft edges, strategically placed cushions, or car-themed band aids when he worked. If you got hurt, then you either rode it out or dealt with it yourself. It was brutal, it was cruel, but it was their lives. When something is all you know, you do not question it.

In the apocalypse, weakness got you killed. 

It was as plain as that. Injury, sickness, disease, dehydration, starvation, you own goddamn mind, all of it was susceptible. It was as if you were a predator, a creature that was solely reliant on the durability of their body to provide all they needed to stay alive. 

It had been a fucking nightmare, treating every cut as if it was deadly, doing the best that he could to save off oncoming illness. As soon as his body went down, Five went down, and that meant he could never get home.

Working for the Commission, weakness made you malleable to manipulation.

Five is not an idiot, he is very much aware that they could have fished him out of the hellhole whenever they liked. Obviously, the sight of a child burying his own siblings was never a tearjerker to any of them. It was probably some sort of twisted form of entertainment. 

Hey look everybody, the kid is trying to dig a hole big enough for Luther with his bare hands! Anyone have popcorn?

Forty-Five years take their toll, no matter what you do to battle it, and by the time he was whisked away to a land of showers, toilets, and coffee machines, Five had suffered greatly, meaning he had to be extra careful to preserve whatever he had left.

He never cried on the job, even when it was children, infants, souls who had barely tasted the air. He never caused a fuss about the injustice of their pay, or the hours, or the conditions. He never allowed himself to become buddy-buddy with his co-workers, despite their attempts.

Keep your head down, keep moving, and you can become background noise while the others gain their attention.

These are the things Five has come to understand, the rules from which he has moulded himself and gouged out a all that he could of the softness that made him a target.

It is hard to unlearn the lessons of a lifetime.

Dinner is lovely.

That is the tragedy of it. Mom has done herself proud with how well the roast has turned out. Diego is keen on emphasising that fact, earning a mildly flustered dismissal from her. Allison makes a point of reinforcing it, until they have all complimented her in turn. Five is sure that if she was able, she would be blushing.

No matter how much he politely declined things, requested portions on the smaller side, and dropped pieces onto the napkin concealed under the table on his lap, Five has ended up with a plate too full.

He picks at it, making a show of cutting so he looks busy, ducking in and out of the conversation as and when it helps him. Ben has been provided with a spot at the tablenbeside Klaus. He, apparently, declined having his own plate of food, saying it would only be a waste. Even though Five hates perfectly good food being thrown away as well, he wishes Ben had taken it, there would have been less for him.

Five is sat at the other end of the table, with Diego opposite and Vanya beside him.

Oblivious and observant.

To give Diego credit, he is a vigilante. He is used to picking up signs and clues as he goes along, but it is also hugely clear when he is off the job. Unless he is paying attention, an army of mice could go marching by his feet and he would remain clueless.

Vanya, not so much.

She had been watching him at lunch. The talk with Klaus seems to have unsettled her, Five not missing the way her eyes flickered between him and his food. She never mentioned anything, of course, and neither had Klaus, but Five was under no misconceptions that the subject had been dropped, either.

They knew about his pills, though not what they were. Klaus had called him an addict once. It would not be hard for either of them to put two and two together. 

Unfortunately, they are missing some variables, throwing their calculations completely off.

Klaus and Ben are tuned into drugs. Years of substance abuse, or watching substance abuse in Ben’s case, would make them jittery about a possible unknown presence of them within the house. Even now, as Five swallows down a mouthful of potato, he can see Klaus watching him out of the corner of his eye.

At least they are at opposite ends of the table, meaning he cannot see the napkin.

Please, _please_ , let Ben be sitting nicely in his spot like a good boy. Everyone looks to his empty seat when addressing him. After years of being ignored, there is no way Ben would want to be missing out on that.

Does this count as his third emotional manipulation of the day?

The chicken tastes sour in his mouth.

“Five?”

“Hm?” Gulping it down, he blinks up at Diego. “Yes?”

“Mom asked if you were still eating?”

Glancing around the table, he finds five other people with empty plates and crossed cutlery, all staring at him expectantly.

_Shit._

He has barely managed half of his food, and he is painfully aware that he gave himself a noticeably smaller portion to begin with. Klaus clearly knows it as well, going by the speedy peek at his plate, and Vanya fidgets next to him.

This is going to be fucking hard to play off.

Five sets his cutlery down, smiling pleasantly at Mom. “No, I’m done.”

“Of course, dear.” She looks at him with warm eyes, like the blessed angel she is, and does not question anything as she starts to gather things up. Diego automatically moves to help her, picking up his own and Allison’s, who has that ‘Mom Look’ about her again. Five deliberately ignores her gaze.

Time to start pulling out some trump cards.

He yawns, and, in perfectly calculated, sickly-sweet cuteness, blinks slowly.

That makes her grin. “Tired, Five?”

“Shut up.” He grumps back, frowning at her accusingly. Still, he wilts back a little in the chair, crossing his arms and making sure to keep the napkin out of sight. “You would be too if you had to deal with _Klaus_ and _shopping_ all morning.”

That turns Allison’s attention to their brother. “I hear you got some skirts. Does that mean that mine are safe from now on?”

Klaus plays his role, hand over his heart. “You _wound_ me, dear sister. I would never-”

“My blouse, my pink skirt, my black skirt, my blue skirt, my blue heels,” Allison lists off easily, using her fingers to demonstrate. “My red scarf, the hat that goes with it, which I still haven’t gotten back-”

“I am an expensive man with expensive tastes!” Klaus defends. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Get a job? Buy your own?”

“You used my scissors the other week to redecorate one of them.” Luther adds in, “Now they’re stuck together.”

Allison fixes Klaus with a scowl. “That better not be one of mine, Klaus. I swear…”

Vanya is watching Five out of the corner of her eyes, analysing him in a way she thinks he does not notice. He loves his sister, he really does, but he would also really like her to _go away_ now, please.

He yawns once more, keeping up appearances.

Diego and Mom reappear, Mom holding up a plate of something.

“Now, who would like dessert?”

_Fuck._

Hey guys, ever hear the one about the apocalyptic-twinkie? Yeah, turns out it puts you off sugar for life, who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that twinkie story so much


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Klaus is as subtle as a brick

There is a _body positivity_ book sat on Five’s bed.

For fuck’s sake.

He is not anorexic, or bulimic, or whatever else the book blurts on about. He _does_ eat and he _does_ get hungry, he just cannot eat a huge amount. A diet of bugs and rations does that to a person, shock fucking horror.

Five can only assume that it is the work of Klaus, probably placed there when Five went downstairs for dinner.

Vanya is not ballsy and while her confidence has been steadily growing over the last few weeks, this direct approach would be way out of her comfort zone. If the others have had their own conversations with their brother since the shopping trip Five has no idea, but considering the he is trained in observing people, so far, they have done nothing to spark his concern.

Luther is hardly the sharpest pin in the packet.

Which just leaves Klaus.

Technically, Klaus and Ben, because those two are one hell of a double act and there is no way they are not as thick as thieves by now, gossiping about everyone behind their backs and trading secrets. Ben is probably in his room right now, watching Five’s reaction and ready to relay it all back to Klaus like a well-behaved snitch.

There is not much to see. All Five has managed since striding into the room is standing at the end of his bed, glaring daggers at the book while silently seething. His hands are fisted tight, he can feel his nails bury deep into his skin, and his breathing wheezes loud in his ears.

He works his jaw, making it crack loud in the silent room.

Five is good at a lot of things. He can shoot down targets from ridiculous ranges, he can think of over thirty different ways to kill someone in a blink of an eye, he can formulate plans on a whim, and has a mathematician’s brain a professor could only dream to possess. 

But this shit? Not so much.

Another side-effect of the apocalypse, he presumes. Especially considering he was only aged thirteen at the time.

Just…

Touchy-feely, let’s sit down and contemplate our emotions is not how Five operates. 

He is self-reliant, independent, closed-off to everything and everyone that comes his way. In the apocalypse it was necessary, because if you spent the entire time with your emotions on your sleeve, then you would never leave the street for mourning. At the Commission, it was because Five had a plan, and he needed to keep people at bay so it could remain secret.

Klaus is poking the bear.

The very volatile, knife-wielding bear.

He is _fine_. All this worry and faff behind hushed whispers is meaningless, because there is nothing wrong with him. He had a small, very limited diet in the apocalypse, and now he has a small, very limited appetite here. 

The Commission had understood this. They never got in the way of his eating habits. In fact, they almost actively encouraged it, less expenditure and all. Co-workers, on the brief moments they had crossed each other while on the job, had never grasped that. In their minds, the company was raking out for all their bills, why not flaunt it as and when they could?

Five breathes in and out slowly, savouring the taste of the air on his tongue. He can still catch the flavours of dinner lingering in his mouth, and honestly Five wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep off everything he has forced down today.

The book continues to sit innocently on his bed.

The goddamn book.

The _fucking book._

Five is not a child, why do they not get this? He is an adult, he knows what responsible eating is, he knows what is healthy and is not, why can they not just leave him be? Trust that he some idea of what he is doing?

Hell, he is an old man! Isn’t a lack of appetite a sign of old age?

A white-hot emotion tingles in his muscles, making them twitch and spark with static.

They do this, they always do this. Looking down on him, patting him on the head, offering to tie his shoelaces and getting him mugs littered with teddy bears. Five is a killer, a mass murder, he has started and finished wars, brought down dictators, ended the lives of both cruel and innocent in a matter of meaningless seconds, why is his family so keen on _infantising_ him?

Five is moving before he can blink, snatching the book up in a grip that makes the spine groan and flinging it as hard and as fast as he physically can, aiming for his wall where he hopes it makes a satisfying dent.

He misjudges, and instead it goes sailing out his closed window.

A couple of moments later, there is a dull thud as it hits the floor of the alleyway below, a tinkle of glass following not long after.

Shit.

“Shit.”

The brand-new hole whistles in the wind, a triumphant mockery of Five, allowing a cool breeze to slip through and tickle his face. The sounds of the street have grown louder, no longer fully muffled, and a spiderweb of cracks claw out like jagged roots across the rest of the pane.

There goes any luck of him arguing that he has self-control for the next year.

Five is not a window expert, not by a long shot, but there is no way he is going to be able to fix that; the entire stupid thing needs replacing. Where the fuck will he find a new window pane? 

Plus, he is going to have to live with it for at least tonight, if not longer. It is already nearing eight o’clock, no one will be open at this time, much less willing to be hired by a literal teenager.

Isn’t it meant to get cold this evening?

He…He should cover it up.

Glancing around his room, his gaze settles on his bin where he dumped the cardboard that kept his polo shirts stiff in their packaging. It is flimsy, and not at all waterproof, but it would do for the moment, at least to keep some of the heat in his room and the chill out.

Swiping it up, Five uncrumples the card and holds it up against the window, squinting as he judges the size. 

Perfect.

He has a roll of sellotape somewhere, and some scissors. Dumping the card on top of the desk, Five tugs open one of the draws, digging through the random scraps of paper he has accumulated over the last few weeks.

Most of it is equations, calculations that he could not fit on the wall, or the floor, or on top of the end table in the corridor that Allison had caught him scribbling on, resulting in a half an hour rant that ended with the exclamation, “This is why we can’t have nice things!”

Five finds the scissors sat on top of his old calculator, glitter marring the metal and something that looks suspiciously like dried glue locking them together.

So, after ruining Luther’s, Klaus had decided to help himself to Five’s instead. Typical, goddamn typical.

“Great.”

He ends up emptying most of the contents of his draws onto the desk in search for the tape, littering it with snapped pencils, erasers, a tape measure, and his glass bottle of vitamin pills. 

Normally vitamins are in those little plastic containers when brought from a shop, but these came from the apartment three streets over Five had subtly broken into following his not-so-subtle argument with the cashier who refused to let him buy any. 

The owner of the apartment was a grade-a dick, having sneered at Klaus a while ago and catcalling Allison not long after that, so Five refused to feel guilty about it. Unlike Five, at least he would be allowed to purchase replacements.

Whether he could afford to replace the two broken TVs, the fridge, the computer, and the trophy cabinet Five did not know or care. He could hardly be blamed, if the guy was going to be so blasé about ‘hiding’ his spare key under the doormat then what did he honestly expect?

Plus, Five had secured a vitamin supply, so overall it was a win-win.

Though, considering that Klaus has obviously been rooting through to help himself to Five’s things, it would probably be wise to hide the vitamins elsewhere, somewhere where only he could reach.

The sellotape manifests at the very bottom of his right-hand draw, wedged between a broken stapler and a hole-punch. There is little left, and whoever used it last did a very poor job because the end has become well and truly stuck to the rest of the reem, refusing to budge no matter how many times Five’s nail picks at it.

Perhaps Five was just destined to have a bad day.

It would not be the first. In fact, most days of his life were made up of bad days. By now he should be practically expecting something to go wrong.

The universe clearly hears his private thoughts because, as if playing some cruel, wicked trick, it decides to make that moment the one where his hands get a bit too rough with the tape, a bit too desperate, and the roll goes shooting out like a bullet, slipping between his fingers as he jerks to catch it on instinct.

His elbow hits the bottle of pills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Busted.

The bottle goes tumbling.

Despite being the time traveller of the family, Five can only watch stupidly as it falls, practically in slow motion, over the edge.

The sound of the smash rings terrifyingly loud in the otherwise quiet room, echoing off the walls and ringing in his ears as he makes a strangled, yelping sound. Pills scatter like distressed ants in a thousand different directions as the glass shatters, spraying out chunks just inches from his socked feet.

Then, to rub salt into the wound, a knock on the door.

“Five?”

Klaus is going to be dead by the end of the day.

How can a single man get on Five’s bad side so much in the span of twenty minutes? First the book, and now this, not to mention the gossiping whispers all day.

Is this what drugs do to the human brain? Is Ben encouraging him from beyond the grave to be a pain in the ass? Seriously, there must be a dark magic working here, because holy fuck Five has not been this unlucky in a while.

“Not now.” He bites out, his words harsh and jagged, because there is a hole in his window, his desk is a mess, there is a noticeable absence of a certain book, and his pills coat the floor like a mocking mosaic.

There is a pause on the other side, and the sound of floorboards creaking as Klaus shuffles. “Ben said he saw something fly out your window.” _Liar_. “Everything alright, buddy boo?”

So, Five had been correct, Ben had been in his room with him. Perfect, fucking brilliant. Glad to see his family respects his sense of privacy. Ben probably got a front row seat as well, making little detailed notes on his behaviour to read out like some fucked up announcer reading the news. Bet Klaus really enjoyed that.

He spits, lacing his tone with venom, “I’m fine, go away.”

Five can practically hear his brother’s shit-eating grin. “I think someone’s telling porky pies!” The door handle jiggles, and just like that Klaus comes striding in. “Come on, you can tell your big bro what happen-” 

He abruptly snaps his mouth shut at the sight of the broken window, blinking dumbly as his eyes trail across to the mess on the desk, and then finally the broken pill bottle on the floor.

With a growl that would make any rottweiler proud, Five marches across the room, glass grinding under his right foot. Sharp splinters of pain zap through his sole, fierce enough to make his bones shudder, his sock doing nothing to offer protection as hot blood quickly seeps through the newly formed cracks.

Five swallows, physically forcing the bile that rises deep, deep down, right into the very pit of his stomach.

He suffered the apocalypse; he has had worse.

Grabbing onto Klaus’ arm, Five pushes hard, steering his brother back towards the door. “Funnily enough,” He hisses, loud in the small room, “When I say go away, I mean _go away_.”

Klaus bats him off easily, completely unaffected by Five’s attempts as he latches onto his shoulders in a grip that hurts. His hands tremor a little, and he shakes Five once, hard, enough to make his head snap back painfully on his neck.

“ _Ow_ -”

“Five, what the fuck?” Klaus breathes, his gaze open and intense. His tone raises with panic. “What the hell is all this?” Stooping to pluck a pill from the floor, he jams it into his face as if Five was blind and oblivious. “What are these?”

Five’s nails cut into his palms so hard, he is amazed they have not appeared out the back of his hand. 

Lowly, with as much deadly warning as he can muster, he holds his brother’s gaze. “Klaus.”

“And you…” Klaus’ attention is drawn once again to the broken window, his mouth moving without words as he stammers to comprehend. “You threw the book out the _window?_ Why? What-” Ben must interrupt him, because Klaus very quickly cuts himself off to jerk his stare down to Five’s feet. “You’re bleeding!”

“So, it was you.” Five’s tone is bitter, unsurprised, lodging in his throat in the same choking way it did when Vanya asked why he had not simply used time travel to get back. “Gee, thanks Klaus, I’m so pleased you felt the need to barge into my business. You and Ben.”

Something painful twists in Klaus’ expression, and that familiar feeling of being babied is back, washing over him like putrid acid. It makes Five’s lip curl in disgust, and he smacks Klaus away as hard as he can, backing up a few paces to put distance between them. More glass digs into his heel, as if tiny burrowing leeches entering his flesh.

Klaus notices, and holds out a hand to stop him.

“Five-”

“I don’t want your help.” His lower jaw shudders. Nausea swims in his gut. “I don’t _need_ you pity, or your sympathy, or your _books_. For fuck’s sake can’t you guys, just for once, leave me the hell alone?”

It is strange, he notes absently, as the fire burns his blood and the hurricane rips his thoughts, because if fifteen-year-old Five was here right now, the one who had just suffered a fever from infection and had spent days hallucinating his siblings, he would be doing everything in his power to shut him the hell up.

This is what he fought for, after all. 

This was his bread and butter for decades, his motivation, his drive for surviving another day, and then another, and another. Everything since the age of thirteen had been focused solely on his siblings. It was never about the world, not really, and deep beneath the rubble walls he knows that.

It was simply easier to play it off, that was all.

Weakness is negative. It is a dark, dank pit that is easy to fall into but impossible to climb out. You show weakness, and you are dead. Five knows that. He _knows_ that.

But he does not want to be alone. Not again. Never again. The silence kills. The emptiness laughs. The longing aches. It just goes on, and on, and on, until your mind is so stuffed with broken bricks and landscapes devoid of life that the voices sneaking into your head are a fucking _comfort_. You want to be concerned, but in the end, you are so starved that just a drop of something, anything, is a high you cannot help but crave.

Klaus watches him weakly, his expression full of care and concern and _love._

Five might just throw up, right here, in the middle of his room surrounded by mess and glass and pills.

Then again, that could be the result of a whole day’s worth of food. It is hard to tell at this point.

“Five…”

Weakness is a fault. Five snuffs it out.

“I am fifty-eight years old.” He snarls, the world around them merely a blur in comparison to the violent focus he has set onto Klaus, one that makes his full-grown brother shrink back. “I have killed thousands. I have slaughtered mothers and sons and daughters and _children_. I am _not_ some delicate infant to be passed around and cooed over. Everything I have ever done; I’ve done by myself.” 

There is that expression, again. It makes his insides recoil.

Klaus tries to touch him. “You’re not-”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you _fucking dare!_ ” He cannot even feel his body anymore, his entire being nothing other than molten lava and smoke. “I don’t need your help, or your hovering, or your tricks. I don’t need _you_.”

With that, he jumps from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Posts chapter and sits back to listen to the sounds of worldwide screaming*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's fine.

You cannot see the stars in the apocalypse, there is too much ash.

It had taken well over fifteen years for it to finally begin to recede, but it was always there, in some form or another. Without any proper worldwide weather programmes or access to satellites, Five could only work off his theories, but to him it seemed that the ash formed some kind of large, toxic cloud, one that would shift across Earth with the winds.

Some days it was clear, some days it snowed, and some days ash fluttered from the heavens.

It had sucked. It had really, _really_ , sucked. 

Ash makes breathing hard, it sneaks into your lungs and forces your body to cough up dark phlegm. It leaves you wheezy, gasping to catch your breath, which, when your only hope of survival is yourself and your body, is dangerous. Struggling to find air means you cannot walk properly, which means you cannot search as thoroughly as you need to find supplies, which means you cannot eat.

But what Five hated the most was when the clouds became so heavy, so thick with vomiting plumes of smoke and dust and grime, that he would not see the sky for months.

Daytime was never too bad. He had his missions, calculations, Dolores, things to keep his mind and body whirring and his vision focused. However, it was when the light began to dim, marring the world in that off-brown colour, and Five began to slow down, that things became truly fun.

By this point his definition of ‘fun’ might be a touch skewed, but that is no matter.

Perhaps it was paranoia, forged out of desperation and the constantly shifting rubble. Perhaps it was desperation, because there were evenings when Five longed to see another person with a heartbeat so much that his chest would squeeze, crushing his ribs and collapsing his airways. Perhaps it was the fear, that constant worry that one day things would start creeping out of the night, sneaking up behind him, silencing Dolores and dragging Five into their hellish depths.

The bugs never helped, scuttling in and out of view in the corners of his vision, tiny pests that mocked him from the side lines, making Five their entertainment and shadowing him wherever he travelled. More than once he had woken to them examining his face, tangling his hair and later his beard, yelling out of sleep at the sensation of tiny pincers nipping into his skin.

The problem was, at night things moved.

The collapsed telephone wire suddenly looked like a man, standing silently just outside the light of the fire, watching him as he prepared dinner.

The rolling material caught in the wind became a child’s dress, blowing as they skipped along the broken road.

The tumbling brick he had dislodged hours ago morphed into hands clawing their way out, worming up from their graves, their tombs, their catacombs.

Moonlight helped.

Ash did not.

Thank fuck for Dolores.

Bringing the bottle to his lips, Five takes a deep swig, wincing down the burn that scratches at his throat. The pain in his foot is really beginning to properly smart now, beating in time with his pulse. The jumps must have shifted some of the embedded glass, because by now his sock is completely drenched, making it feel hot and gross.

If Dolores was here, she would be scolding him, ordering him to fix himself up, to apologise, to bare every single Achilles heel he owns out into the open for all to see.

But she is not here.

She is safely tucked away back in her shop, wearing an outfit she adores and far, far away from any threats that could bring her harm. They chat briefly on occasion, whenever Five happens to be passing through, but he never allows her to come home with him. She has been shot at too many times because of his presence, and she deserves so much more than that.

He misses her, though.

Five hopes she misses him, too. Even if it is only a little. Just a miniscule momentum from their time together.

He drinks again, the liquid sloshing but not spilling. Years of savouring whatever he could has turned the skill of keeping everything contained in the bottle into a well-trained habit.

In a funny twist of irony, Five always has room for alcohol. 

It does nothing to stop him feeling sick from the day’s meals, likely only making it worse, but he will never deny himself a tasting of the devil’s work. Allison hates it, and Vanya too, in her own, quiet way. Luther is concerned, but after being on the receiving end of several flying glasses has finally stopped bothering him on the subject. Diego finds it amusing, plus it showed Luther up, and that always puts things in his good books. Five has never heard Ben’s opinion.

Klaus just pities him.

Like they _all_ do.

His hands are literally drenched in blood he will never be able to clean away, and for the longest time he did not want to. He is too far gone, too lost, too barricaded in the recesses of his own mind, in the corners of the burning library that had somehow remained standing.

Why will no one listen to him?

Why will no one _ever_ listen to him?

The apocalypse, the Commission, the week he returned. For so many years he has been condescended, spoken over, brushed off and manipulated. Even Dad never gave him the time of day, whisking him off for training turned torture and demeaning him whenever Five caught a spark of want. 

Dolores was the only who sat down, waited him out, and _digested_ the words Five spoke.

A long time ago, an entire lifetime, he would have also said Vanya. It was true, in those horrible evenings when Five could barely move without puking, she had been his comfort. But she is older now, weighted by the experience of experiences. Her ears are no longer tuned into his song, simply skimming the surface of his boyish appearance, the same as everyone else.

She tries, more so than the likes of Luther, who does not listen properly to anyone, and Allison, who is so wrapped up in her own child’s life that she projects that onto _him_ , but attempts can only reach so far.

All those years alone, both physically and emotionally, and yet it is when he is back home that he is without a voice.

“Room for one more?” Klaus asks, sliding down to sit against the vent Five has propped himself against, the cool night wind blowing chilly across the rooftop.

Sighing, Five stares up at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dolores, probably: My 'Five is doing something idiotic' alarm is going off...
> 
> Side note: Updated the tags


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two bros, chillin’ on a rooftop, three inches apart because one has no idea what personal space means.

A couple of years ago, Five had to kill someone handcuffed to a bed.

It was a politician, though Five did not recognise the name and did not bother learning anything other than the where and when. He had a job to do, so he did it, as simple as that.

This is what the Commission was all about. They numbed you, dulled your senses to anything other than the scent and tang and feel of blood. Before your first year was out you were already soaked in it, a perfume of both victory and defeat, worn like a badge of honour yet in truth more akin to the boils that come before a plague.

Five saw it reflected in the new recruits they dragged in, all wide-eyed and shell-shocked and so remarkably out of place in the office environment. Sometimes he would watch as they battled to discover the whys and the whos, the reasonings people had made as to why a little girl needed to die, a lone mother, a struggling father, the gardener, the fisherman, the soldier. They fought for the rational, for the explanations that made sense, and they never received them.

It was like observing a person as death took hold, the light slowly diminishing from their eyes as they ultimately, one by one, accepted their fates as the Commission’s bloody hunting hounds.

There was never a rational, not really.

Just the slaughter.

Which was why on that mission Five did not bat an eyelid at the gross surroundings, or the leather, or the gaggle of women who scuttled out of his way as he followed the target into the unlocked room.

The man had, thankfully, been covered by a sheet and mostly dressed, but he still looked pathetic as he begged, and pleaded, and protested for his life. The deed had been quick, a single bullet to the forehead, and considering the walls were painted a gaudy crimson colour the stain would not notice too much for other clients.

 _That_ delightful little excursion was nowhere near as awkward as his brother sitting next to him on the roof.

Jesus Christ.

Five keeps drinking, allowing the silence to stretch out uselessly, ignoring the way Klaus shifts about on his backside in an effort to get comfortable on the cold surface. He keeps peeking over at Five out of the corner of his eye, muttering soft things under his breath as he undoubtedly whispers to Ben.

It takes exactly seven minutes and thirty-two seconds for Klaus to crack.

“Five-”

“Klaus.”

The bland nature of his tone is enough to deflate Klaus of whatever confidence he had mustered, his shoulders sinking as he chews on his lip. His hands rub together in a nervous tick he has developed, though if that is a side effect of years of drug use, Five is not sure.

Ben must be talking, because Klaus glances away, nods, and then returns his heavy gaze to Five.

He refuses to wilt under it.

“What’re you taking?”

Snorting, Five cannot help but smirk at that, bringing the bottle to his lips again. It scorches. “I don’t think that is what Ben told you to say.”

He is right, going by the subtle wincing Klaus is doing as he receives an earful. His brother pouts, clicking his tongue and throwing his hands into the air.

“Alright, jeez, don’t kick a guy for trying.”

“I wouldn’t call that trying, more blindly regurgitating what you just heard.”

“I don’t bli-” Klaus freezes and then whips around to open air, “What do you mean ‘ _thank you_ ’?”

Perhaps Five is more drunk than he realises, because that prompts a burst of laughter out of him, thoroughly startling Klaus and making Five’s chest rattle in a strange, uncomfortable emotion.

Realising he has caught a winning streak, Klaus crosses his arms in a movement far too exaggerated for it to be natural, banging his head against the vent. It makes a low thudding noise, vibrating against their backs as if a bizarre massage chair.

“You two bully me. It’s not fair, you can’t even hear each other!” He crosses his legs out in front of him. “Stop being in sync.”

“Stop making it easy.” Five shrugs, eyes trailing across the city. 

Silence falls between them, but this time it is lighter, not necessarily _comfortable_ , but not stifling either. Klaus rubs at his face, rolling the skin of his eyelids under his fingertips, and absently Five runs his nail over the label of the bottle, picking at the corner.

Somewhere in the distance a car horn blares, and the sounds of shouting voices echo down the streets. Lights glow in low oranges and bright yellows, giving the buildings a shimmering quality to them, as if an abstract painting. If Five squints, they blur together, smudging into glorious lines of colour.

There was nothing like that in the apocalypse.

Not even close.

The air is clean and fresh, or as much as it can be for a city stuffed with cars and engines, holding no trace of that terrible ash that baptised him daily, nightly, _yearly_.

He had missed this.

He did not even know it before, but he loves this, and he missed it.

There are so many sounds of _life_ everywhere. How did he ever take this for granted?

“Five?” Klaus says again, and this time Five does not write him off straight away, instead rolling his head to face his brother as they sit side-by-side. Klaus faces him too, an odd expression of defeat on his face. He asks, voice small and quiet, as if anyone hearing would snatch it away, “Are you ok?”

No.

He has never had time for ok. He has never had the time for good, of happy, or content. There was always something, be it survival, or missions, or preventing the apocalypse. He has been running for most of his life, away from things, towards things, when would he ever have had the chance to catch his breath?

The silence speaks for itself, and Klaus’ face crumples in a way that would normally spark a round of unwanted hugs and coos, but he restrains, merely sinking against the vent further. Five makes no move wards him.

“Tell me, Klaus,” Five sighs, “As you’ve been homeless, what does starvation feel like?”

“What?” His brother frowns, not following his train of thought.

“Starvation. What does it feel like?”

Cocking his head, Klaus returns to chewing on his lip, his teeth catching his stubble. It makes Five grimace. While he had sported both a beard and a moustache, he had never taken to the stubble look. He had found it itchy, uncomfortable, and hard to keep looking professional.

After a long, contemplative beat, Klaus starts, “It…Hurt. Right here.” He forms a fist over his stomach in an area Five knows all too well. “As if there was something heavy there, and…Five-” 

“As if you can’t move without tripping.” Five continues, staring up at the stars. “As if there is a boulder repeatedly smashing against the inside of your skull, chipping away at your brain and making things fuzzy. As if the black spots in the corner of your vision are people, and if you can will yourself to fucking _move_ , perhaps you’ll reach them.” He sneers to himself, adding, with a bitter grin, “Shit, basically.”

“Um, yeah.” The expression on Klaus’ face is priceless, the poor man is completely lost and totally out of his comfort zone, despite being one of the more empathetic of Five’s brothers.

“Well, there you go then.” Five allows his voice to drift away, leaning back and closing his eyes. He hears Klaus make a confused noise.

Like he said before, they never _listen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst? I'm my fic? It's more likely than you think!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone: Yay, Five and Klaus are going to talk things out on the roof!
> 
> Me:...I mean...I can promise talking.

Weakness is not in Five’s nature.

But drinking always made him loose lipped.

He is regretting it now.

“Are you telling me that you _starved?"_ Klaus cries, brain finally clicking things together and waving away what must be Ben. “How? When? Was it Dad? Oh fuck, _was_ it Dad? Shit, why did we never-”

“It wasn’t _Dad._ ” He hisses, glaring at Klaus as if he is an idiot, which he very much is. “My power needs high energy, what the hell would he achieve by starving me?”

“What the hell would he achieve by sending Luther to the moon?” Klaus shoots back, giving him that typical, ‘I just won the argument’ look they all use when they try to pull the older sibling card.

Five stares at it, biting hard down on his tongue.

Klaus has clearly come up here to talk, to understand, to make amends, but he is also trying to pull rank, trying to pity and dominate him all over again. It makes something dark and unpleasant curl within his chest cavity, squeezing his airways until he might just choke on it.

They have no idea _who he is_ , do they?

Slowly working his jaw, Five turns away sharply, the taste of copper blooming between his molars.

If Dolores was here, she would be soothing him in that infuriating way that always worked. She had talked him out of many bad situations, or nights, or moments of complete breakdown. Five is convinced that in another life she must have been a mother, a role he knows she would be amazing in, though he never had the guts to tell her his suspicions. That would have been a previous life, after all, and there was no need to drag up old hurt.

He wishes someone would talk like that to him again, and see past his school boy appearance when they do.

“I’m…” Klaus audibly swallows, his resolve crumbling in favour of desperation. “I’m not trying to _pick_ on you, Five. I’m trying to _help_ you.” He quickly shoots up a hand when Five goes to protest, silencing him. “Please? We’re worried, the same way you were worried about Allison, or Vanya.”

“Do you know what happened the last time I accepted someone’s ‘help’?”

The question throws Klaus off-guard. “No?”

“I got shoved into a room, psychoanalysed, and then had a gun thrown into my hands and told to shoot.” He cackles as the dark sensation plays with the veins connecting to his heart, plucking them like a cello. “No matter the fact that I hadn’t been around people for forty-five years, no matter I hadn’t seen clean water since I last wore these,” He gestures to his uniform, “Just, here, we helped you and now you’re going to kill thousands of people because we said so. Be grateful, you owe us.”

That had hurt. You owe us. You owe me.

Who the fuck paid a debt by being moulded into a monster?

“It’s not weak to ask for help, Five.” Klaus’ voice is soft, as if scared to break whatever it is that has Five talking. He probably should not be too worried; it is likely the alcohol. “I’ve had Ben and Diego, they helped me get clean. And…And Dave.”

Five is not cruel enough to snipe at him about Dave.

“Everything I have achieved in my life I have achieved by myself. Want to know something funny?” He grins at Klaus, though it feels weak. “Not ha-ha funny, but kinda ironic? Dad never worked anything out about my powers, ever. I always did. I was the one who figured out how to jump, and how to control where I go. I was the one who realised I could time travel. I was the one who found out I had limits, and that I needed goddamn energy to do anything at all.”

“Sounds about right.” Klaus sighs, pushing some of his hair out of his face. “The bastard. But he’s not here, Five, not anymore. _I_ don’t even see his bony ass floating around the place. Him or the Permission.”

“Commission.”

He snaps his fingers. “Them as well.”

“Klaus…” Five is so tired. He is so tired of talking, of going around in circles, of the anxious hovering of six helicopter parents. “You’re looking at the world’s most independent person. I survived the apocalypse, alone, for decades. I handled myself in a manipulative hellhole. When I say I can take of myself, I _do_ mean it.”

“Taking drugs isn’t taking care of yourself, short stack.” Klaus argues, his face becoming stern again, that glint of protectiveness in his eye. “I should know.”

Fuck it.

“Klaus, they’re vitamins.”

Just fuck it. Five is done. He has had enough. If they want the truth, fine, let them feast upon his entire, garish being. Let them see the horrors that lurk within, the deepest, dankest recesses of his mind where his thoughts fester and mould. Let them watch, unable to scream, as the weight of a lifetime of sins slithers around him, suffocating him and making his body puke with other people’s blood.

“I…What?”

“They’re vitamins. Because in the apocalypse I survived on scavenged rations and _bugs_.” He dares Klaus to break his stare, to back out of this sudden conversation. His words feel heavy, thick, battering the backs of his teeth. “On average, I ate a single can of whatever and five bugs a day. Cockroaches, if you want to be exact, because they liked to devour the bodies that laid everywhere. Spiders are into flies, but most flying insects didn’t survive. If you really, _really_ want to think about it, I ate what ate you. Fun, right?”

Klaus’ eyes are blown wide, his mouth moving open and closed like a beached fish as he tries to comprehend what he is hearing, his skin turning vaguely green around the edges. He makes no movement towards Ben, suggesting that Ben is in the same condition. 

_Good._

“The problem is, in the apocalypse you either put the effort into survival or you die. There is no in-between, no buffer zone, no moments where you can sit back and relax.” Five cannot remember when he put the bottle down, but he has started making gestures with his hands, wild, frantic, angry. “You have to keep moving, have to keep finding supplies, but the thing is? Starvation is a bitch, and funnily enough when you’re relying on literal _insects_ for sustenance, it’s not long until you get that hurt, right here.” He makes the same movement as Klaus did before, right over his stomach.

Klaus turns greener at the mentions of the bugs. If he vomits, Five refuses to be responsible for it, especially as this conversation is Klaus’ doing anyway.

“Do you want know what passing out in the end of the world is like? It’s waking up and finding bug bites all over your arms because they thought you were another dead thing to chomp on. It’s not knowing how much time you have left in the day to build a camp or to find other supplies. It’s hitting your head and having _no idea_ how serious it is.”

“Five…” Klaus whispers, his hands hovering just over his arm but not touching, as if he is too scared that Five will crumble into dust if he pushes too harshly.

“So, I would take vitamins, and supplements, because I needed to get _something_ into my body, just a little of what it needs nutritionally.” He gulps, eyes searching Klaus’, practically begging for him to understand, to _listen._ “I get that I’m not there now, surprisingly I fucking get it, but I spent the majority of my life barely eating anything a day, why the hell could I stand an adult-sized meal now? Do you know how hard today was? I thought I was going to be _sick_. But if I _dare_ mention it to any of you, what do I get?”

Five holds Klaus’ scared, horrified gaze. Lights from the street reflect back along with Five’s own pale appearance. Somewhere on a floor below, Diego and Luther are arguing, the sounds drifting up from an open window like two dogs barking menacingly at one another.

Very, very weakly, Klaus mutters, “Ben asks what.”

He laughs, his hands raising to scrape painfully through his hair. “I get _kid_ , and _little guy_ , and _short stack_. I get children’s menus, and teddy-bear themed shit, and offers to tie my shoelaces. Is…Am I…Is my entire existence a joke to you?” Five intends for that last part to come out scathing, but instead it is delivered pathetically, shakily, full of unshed tears. “I fought so hard to get back, why can’t-” He cuts away, his entire body trembling.

He just wants to be treated like a fucking _human being._

For once in his goddamn life, can’t someone treat him like a person?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this little fic I was playing around with got a bit deeper than I intended...Haha...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus: Awkward sibling hu-
> 
> Five: No.

Physical contact is a strange thing.

As the saying goes, “Monkey see, monkey do,” so when their Father led by example by keeping them at an arm’s length, it was only natural that they would copy like the good little soldiers they were.

Naturally, as the years went by and they grew older, things changed. Klaus is an obvious example of that, forever leaning against his siblings, dramatically hugging them, squishing their cheeks together stupidly, it was as if he reached a certain age and all understanding of personal space when soaring clear out the window in favour of prods and pokes and pinches. 

Now Five thinks about it with the privileges of retrospect and hindsight, perhaps that was a cry of help more than anything else. He never paid much attention, too busy with training and studies, but it was likely that this sudden desperation for touch coincided with the appearance of certain entities from the other side. After all, how do you confirm that someone is a living person, other than to touch them?

The rest of his siblings followed a shaky suit, forming a scale that ranged from ‘will hug if prompted’ to ‘so much as look at me and you’ll get a knife in your eye’. 

Five was somewhere in the latter.

Not that he was particularly cruel, and he had always harvested that secret soft spot for Vanya, but he was not the one typically sought after for cuddles and bed sharing following bad dreams and harrowing training sessions. Ben and Klaus were the ones who took that role up with great vigour, getting in trouble for it more times than he could count, and Five was perfectly content for it to remain that way.

But then the apocalypse happened, and that was that. 

At least he had Dolores for company, but for as much as he loved her, she was always the one to force him to initiate contact, saying it was good for him to reach out to others. It was goddamn awkward, and a lifetime of habits meant the occasions he buckled up the courage to ask were rare enough to be savoured. 

She was always so pleased when he did, though, and never turned him down when he all but whispered a request to hold her for the night, when the people in the corner of his eyes became a bit too lifelike, or the thousands of bugs were particularly active.

Fuck, he wishes he could still have Dolores.

He misses her.

“Calm down, calm down,” Klaus is muttering, rocking back and forth with his arms locked firmly around Five, one hand rubbing his back and the other slowly raking through his hair. “Easy, breathe Five, Jesus.”

He is crying. He is sat on a rooftop, halfway to blissfully drunk, cradled in his brother’s arms and crying. His face has been carefully placed into the crook of Klaus’ neck, the exposed skin cold against his warm cheeks and scented with cigarettes, Allison’s deodorant, and old clothes.

Five has spent the last, what, hour? Two hours? Shouting at Klaus, trying to get his brother to see, to _understand_ , to acknowledge Five for who he really is, not just a pair of school-boy shorts and a blazer. He worked so hard for that result, for that briefest flicker of acknowledgement, yet here he is, unravelling it all as if pulling a threat from a blanket, destroying his clawed attempts with a mere and thoughtless pluck.

“Fuck off.” Five croaks, so weak and pathetically juvenile that it _hurts._

Dad would be disappointed.

“Not gonna do that, I’m afraid.”

“Fuck _off,_ Klaus!” With a snarl nowhere near as vile as he wants it to be, Five pushes against Klaus’ chest, attempting to disentangle himself from the long, lanky arms and those gentle, kind words. 

They are too soft for him, fluffed with feathers and pillows, and Five is nothing like that. Five is harsh, sharp, if you gaze upon him for too long you risk being sliced. He is crawling with insects feasting on the blood he has spilled and the corpses he had laid. He is nothing like Klaus, or Ben, or Vanya, they are the noble knights of their story, the ones who ride on white steeds and rescue damsels and fair maidens. 

Five is Lady Macbeth, forever tarnished, nothing but an outward appearance and gore.

“Hey, hey,” Klaus protests, grabbing onto his wrists and holding him there. “Shor- Bro, look at me, it’s alright, calm down.”

He fights back. “I’m _not_ a child, Klaus.”

“I know, hey, easy, I get it.”

“ _Do_ you?” Their gazes meet, and Five hates to imagine what he looks like right now, tear streaks down his face and body trembling. “Do you really, truly, understand what I’m going through, Klaus?”

It is that second’s hesitation, that tiny moment of doubt that surfaces behind the concerned, loving expression, that prompts him to yank his hands free, a loud, too-high laugh shaking him.

He jumps.

“Oh!” Mom lets out a surprised trill as he lands haphazardly on his bed, a dustpan and brush in her hands and her skirt swirling.

He blinks at her, dumbly, as she finishes tipping the glass and pills into his bin. His desk has been cleared, no doubt his draws now neatly sorted into categorised sections as she likes to do, and there is a faint smell of polish lingering in the air.

Five clears his throat, quickly rubbing his sleeve across his face. “Thanks, Mom.”

“No problem, dear.” She smiles, straightening out her perfect clothes. Her lips dim, however, when she catches sight of his foot. “Oh, what happened?”

He gestures stiffly towards the now clear floor. “Stepped on the glass.”

“Silly,” She lightly scolds, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Wait right here, I’ll get the first aid kit.”

If it was anyone else, Five would bite back, snap and spit like a rabid stray, but this is Mom. She does not judge, or assume, or has made any moves to treat him differently than how she does his other siblings. Mom simply is, and that is such an unimaginable breath of fresh air.

“Thanks.”

Squeezing reassuringly, she steps out the room, her heels clicking on the wooden floorboards as she retreats down the hall. His listens, laying back on his bed and staring at the ceiling. She must have changed his bed; he can smell the laundry detergent.

His window has been patched up, not perfectly, but practically, enough to last until it can be fixed. Outside, he can hear the sounds of two people having an argument, a man and a woman, something about being late and, “Do you love her more than me?” It plays out like a bad soap opera, and Five rolls his eyes at the drama of it, tuning his hearing inwards.

The noise Luther and Diego were creating has vanished, hopefully under Allison and Vanya’s watchful gaze and not because Klaus is about to gain another new follower. Though, considering their behaviour back as Dad’s funeral, he would not put it past them. They have become better the last few weeks, but it does not take much for them to be battling at each other’s throats, growling like territorial lions who have pissed on the wrong tree.

Quietly, Five wonders what Dolores is doing right now, all away across town, where it is quiet, and safe, and dry.

The store will be closed by this time of night, so it will just be her and her friends. Perhaps they gained new clothes today or were admired by a customer. Perhaps she is telling them stories about her and Five in the apocalypse, like when it rained for the first time and they saw a rainbow, or when the vines began to grow around their home, giving the bland browns and greys a dash of brilliant green.

Perhaps she is whispering through the tale of when there was an earthquake, and he had been pinned under the rubble for several days, separating them, each unable to hear the other.

Perhaps she is explaining, in that anxious, scared way that she did, the time when they got lost in a blizzard, and had to trek through the night to find shelter with only a deteriorating flashlight for guidance.

Perhaps she is relaying the moment Five sliced his knee open on a piece of scrap metal, and how she had to talk him through sewing himself up. How they had to race around town finding supplies, because there was no way he was going to avoid infection, and how they had to pin their hopes on the ruined pharmacy that they would find antibiotics. He was weak, and tired, and vulnerable, and would not be able to fight off the fever alone.

Perhaps she is simply relaxing and wondering what Five is doing right now.

Well, he ponders bitterly at the ceiling, he is fucking his second chance over. 

Arguments, secrets, retreating into the dark recesses of his mind, back into the bricks and ash and fire where it is predictable, lacking those worried stares around every corner and those gentle touches. So far, he has achieved nothing of worth, nothing to hint that he is making the most of his new life.

Five is failing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Five and Dolores, they're so sweet!
> 
> Also I finally got to watch tua today, it's so good and I'm glad I no longer need to rely on gifs and fanfic to know the characters!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh what a beautiful morning~

He is not sure when it happens, or exactly how, but at some point, Five falls asleep.

It is probably the alcohol. A thirteen-year-old body can only take so much after all, and it lacks in the years of built resistance that he painstakingly crafted since the tender age of fourteen and the discovery of an intact bottle of whiskey. By the time he reached his thirties Five had a strong resolve, and it took a good number of drinks for him to feel any kind of buzz.

Dolores, when they had been reunited outside of Hell, had scolded him terribly, describing all the different ways he was harming his new body, how it would affect his mind, his growth, his relationship with his estranged siblings he was fighting so hard to protect. She cared for him deeply, and it pained her to see him in such states.

If Five was being completely honest, he had harvested the suspicion that he was not going to survive that initial week for a long time, before he even managed to get back. Not only would he be double-crossing the Commission, but he also had very little to go on in terms of preventing the end of the world and he doubted that he was going to have much time for a lunch break and a nap in between. For most of it, he going to be running on empty.

As Five told The Handler in that fun little rendezvous, he was not looking for happy. 

He never had been.

He had been looking to ensure the _survival_ of his family.

Those are two completely different things.

But all this meant that, at the end of the day, his body was disposable. If he was not going to last until the end of the week then he might as well do whatever he goddamn likes in the moment, including drinking himself into that pleasant, intoxicated coma where his thoughts are finally muffled and his stress muted.

However, Five kept that to himself, holding it within like a weak bird tumbling about the nest, never daring to frighten Dolores with such confessions. That beautiful mothering-streak would have crumpled from the terror of it all, and sometimes locking those dark thoughts away in his hollowed chest cavity was kinder than revealing it in all its rotting horror.

She did not deserve to see that side of him. He got lucky in the sense she never knew him during his time at the Commission.

If there was one person he could never face rejection from, it was her.

She would have been laughing now, though, as he wakes to find himself dressed in pyjamas, tightly tucked under his covers and his foot neatly bandaged.

It must have been Mom, there is no way Klaus could ever be neat enough or quiet enough to do anything, and all his other siblings had been sensible in leaving him alone last night. He had that bit of luck, at the very least.

As if to spite him, the thoughts of last night bring on a lovely round of throbbing throughout his head, the delightful aches and pains of a hangover welcoming him to consciousness with the full fanfare and carnival, complete with monkeys playing the symbols and fireworks. Five is sure he can see them exploding behind his eyelids.

It was his own fault, Dolores would tell him, he should not have drunk himself silly.

Groaning, Five rolls over and sits up, his feet dangling over the side of the bed as he pushes the heel of his palms into his eyes, massaging away the incessant thudding.

Downstairs, he can hear the normal morning noise of the kitchen, muffled voices chatting away as pots and pans clang about. Mom has a certain grace when she is cooking, so it must be Klaus or Diego attempting to provide breakfast today.

Luther had been banned after the Great Egg Incident.

Without any dignity whatsoever, Five allows his body to slump over again, his head hitting his pillows and making dust and fluff particles puff up into the air, catching the sunlight.

He really does not want to deal with Klaus. He and Ben will in no doubt be extra prodding today, trying to wiggle more details out of him, or a confession, or, God forbid, call a _family meeting_ on the matter. They have probably relayed everything to the others, probably gossiped on his shouting, his yelling, his _crying._

Behold, dear siblings, we witnessed a great rarity in the night, proof that our tiniest brother will sob like a baby when prompted!

Embarrassment sneaks up on him, though Five blames the hangover when he smothers his face into his pillow to hide the red tinge he is sure his cheeks currently possess. Maybe embarrassment is not the correct word, but humiliation. He is a trained assassin, he should not be going around blubbing everywhere, it is weak and stupid.

Outside, cars rumble down the street, people talking as they go about their daily business. There is a dog barking somewhere, and someone is bellowing at it to shut up.

Of course, the window.

Twisting onto his back, Five glares at it. 

He should get that sorted today, before it becomes a nuisance. Not that there is much to see out of his window, but having a gaping hole letting out all the heat while allowing in the chill is unlikely to be healthy, or practical.

An idea forms in his mind, chasing away the dullness of the hangover.

It is not like he is going to be hungry for hours yet, not after two full meals yesterday. He will probably last until mid afternoon before he really needs to eat anything, at the very least.

Climbing out of bed, Five grabs a set of his new clothes and tugs them on, having to pause to slowly pull his shoe on over the bandage on his foot. It hurts in that familiar ache that comes with being battered and walking on it will be as fun as carrying a bundle of hornets, but he has dealt with far worse in the past. Most of the damage is towards his heel, so if he balances a bit more on his toes it should be fine.

Jumping into the bathroom is easy enough, Five brushing his teeth and fixing his hair quickly before anyone has the bright idea of barging in, and then he jumps into Dad’s office.

While Klaus had thought he had gutted the house of all things priceless and successfully raided all the piggy banks he could find, Five knew of one place he had failed to look for cash.

He was not supposed to know about it, none of them were. 

In defence of himself, Five had not _intended_ to spy on Dad while he organised their finances, but Five had only been six, and jumping at that age had been unpredictable at the best of times, and outright dangerous at the worst.

The old cabinet was hardly the most terrible place to land, though finding it locked and lacking the skills to fully understand how to jump out were less than favourable. Five has spent about three hours trapped in there, peeping through the crack between the doors as he watched Dad work, lacking the confidence to speak up. Looking back, this was probably a wise move, considering Dad was hard to judge and would have in all probability punished Five harshly.

Striding across the room and stumbling because he forgot he is meant to be using his toes more than his heel, Five tugs up the corner of the painting hanging on the wall.

It is a gruesome painting, one depicting the slaughter of a rhino at the hands of a huntsman who proudly stands beside the downed beast holding his gun in one hand, the other on his hip. Blood dribbles from the bullet would, and the rhino’s tongue lolls onto the earth.

It is cold, it is uncaring, it is disgusting.

No wonder Dad owned it.

Five finds the hidden compartment easily and pulls out a wodge of notes. Putting everything back, he takes half back to his room, because he is physically thirteen and has no income, and pockets the other half.

He has never purchased a window before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to avoid your troubles, Five style!
> 
> Also, everyone's comments last chapter made me laugh so much, so thank you for all the compliments and confused yelling!!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breath of fresh air.

Buying a window turned out rather dull in the end.

It had taken a bit of asking around, but eventually Five came across a business that was willing to do it for a fair price. There had been a couple of raised eyebrows at the lanky teenager waltzing in like he owned the place and putting in an order, but an off-the-fly comment about hormones and trying to avoid grounding got him what he needed.

Unfortunately, it had only taken Five the best part of an hour to sort, meaning he was left with an entire day stretched out in front of him. By now his family would have undoubtedly noted his absence, meaning that there will be enough anxious hovering to put humming birds to shame when he gets back.

Fuck, he cannot be bothered with it.

His hands stuffed inside the sweater pocket, which is slightly uncomfortable and not at all as satisfying as the uniform ones, Five wanders, his feet automatically moving as his thoughts drift.

It is strange. As a child, he rarely left the house, and when he did it was either to beat up bad guys or to sneak out. The result of that stellar parenting choice was that they never fully knew the layout of the city. In theory they could navigate it to some extent, but if they were let loose like caged animals set free then it would have taken them hours, perhaps all day, to figure out where home was.

When the apocalypse wiped everything out, it, much in the same way earthquakes do, kept the main rubble in the spaces occupied by buildings while the areas where the road where mostly clear. Not fully, some things collapsed forwards and backwards rather than inwards, but to a degree Five had been able to walk the streets of his home town with a semblance of ease.

Larger cities were the complete opposite, the ones that had towering skyscrapers and weirdly shaped buildings, because when those things fell, they fell _across_ , slicing through the buildings below. If the initial blasts of the apocalypse did not kill everyone, then that certainly did.

Because of this background familiarity, Five quickly locates the park.

It is busy, as would be expected for the middle of the morning, filled with dog walkers and runners. Over in one clear area a group of people stretch their way through yoga, and on a bridge over the pond a grandfather points out things of interest to his two grandchildren, the ten-year-old utterly enthralled with the information but the sixteen-year-old completely bored.

Five locates an empty bench and promptly dumps himself on it, wincing and rolling his ankle as his abused sole complains from use.

Parks were a lifeline while he was at the Commission.

There were times when the blood became too much, too overpowering, too toxic, and the constant mind games and manipulation of his ‘colleagues’ drove his brain numb with exhaustion. Hearing nothing but the sounds of guns, sickly sweet words, and idle co-worker chatter has that effect of you, especially after decades of only Dolores and his own voice for company.

So, before he carried out his hit, he would come to spaces like this, close his eyes, and just listen.

Dogs bark at one another as they pass, straining on their leads to say hello or to growl. Their owners praise and scold them.

Some people wear headphones as they walk along, their tinny music pumping away in such a manner that tells Five they will be suffering the eternal music of tinnitus as they grow older.

Birds chase each other across the branches and open grass, wooing mates and seeing off their rivals with violent flaps of their wings.

Life continues, living, breathing, existing. People go about their days, happy, content, miserable, angry, alive, interacting with other souls and finding everything they need to get by. Phones ring, radios gossip, TVs broadcast, cars rumble, trains screech, bells above doors chime, the sirens of police cars whirl, and the world continues spinning, one day at a time.

All unaware of how close they came to being snuffed out.

Dolores would have liked to come here.

After all, before the apocalypse she would have only seen the inside of the store, and during their time together there had been nothing but broken houses and death. Later, when Five retrieved her and brought her home, he had not dared to take her out of the house to somewhere so public in fear of the Commission reappearing. 

He should have been better, should have taken her out to see some of the sights, a little of their corner of the world.

Had she ever seen grass before, or ponds, or heard the sounds of children playing on climbing sets? Had she ever seen the sky when it was not full of ash and cloud and smoke? Did she know what it was like to feel a pleasant spring breeze that did not carry the scent of death?

“Room for one more?”

Opening his eyes, Five stares at Allison critically, not bothering to hide is lack of humour. She smiles anyway, and sits on the open space beside him, resting one leg on her knee.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Had to deal with a bit of business.” She says, plucking off a piece of fluff from her jeans. “You?”

“What kind of business?”

She huffs but relents. “An old dealer kept following Klaus around, bugging him. I just… _Convinced_ him, that he should back off.”

Five raises an eyebrow at that. “I thought you weren’t in the habit of rumouring anymore?”

“I not.” She states, sitting up straighter and crossing her arms. “But this was for a good purpose.” Allison does not sound completely sure of her words, as if someone had spent hours talking her into doing it. 

Perhaps Klaus has asked, getting Ben and Diego on side as well. After all, having worked so hard to get clean, it would be a shame if Klaus went and relapsed again, especially as he has yet to entirely reach his goal of seeing Dave.

“That was nice of you.”

“Yes, it was.”

He snorts. “How much did they pay you?”

“Oh, I don’t need money, but the confirmation that my clothes will stay mine? Priceless.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of him, making Five tilt his head back towards the sky and the clouds. Allison smirks, pleased, and settles back into the bench. 

A pleasant quiet settles between them, comfortable. By now Five would have expected at least three different ‘Mom Looks’ for his absence at breakfast, sneaking out, and sitting alone in the middle of a park without a phone, but she does nothing to push him, instead gazing over towards the children’s area.

Finally, she sighs, “When Claire visits, we shall have to bring her here. She’d like it.”

Humming, Five nods slowly, following her eyes towards the different climbing sets and slides. One poor mother has been roped into pushing the roundabout, the kids cheering her to go faster and faster despite her laughed protests. Eventually, she backs off, her hands on her knees as the children squeal in delight.

“You know Klaus will totally try and fit in one of those baby swing sets, right?”

This time Allison laughs, sweet and high, and Five grins, watching her as she tries to stifle it under her hand.

Allison and Dolores never did get properly introduced. Five thinks she would love his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this chapter onward we're in the final run, so, um, you might wanna brace yourselves?
> 
> (Also, not everything is as it seems...And I don't mean that to sounds as ominous as it does...)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're in the endgame now...

Anger is not unfamiliar to Five.

Rage, fury, the sensation of lava in your veins, all of it has been harboured within him for as long as he can remember. It probably started with Dad, all those decades ago, when the abuse and neglect first became apparent. 

Remembering the times before their powers is hard, slowly slipping into nothing more than vague images and half-imagined conversations, but the moment they begun to show signs that they were anything but ordinary, the ill-treatment had increased to the point where it could be etched into their brains, staying with them forever.

There was no forgetting the trips to mausoleums or lifting weights too heavy for your arms. There was no cure for locking away the thoughts of rumouring people to death, or flinging knives at your mother, or slaughtering small animals with the beasts that lurked within. No amount of alcohol could ever erase the times when they were put down for not being different.

If Five had been angry before, and he had been young enough that perhaps he had not, then he had gained a volcano in his belly when they became The Umbrella Academy.

Of course, in the Hargreeves household there had been no real outlet for such emotions, only pent up pain and misdirected cruelty. Much like those fuzzy early years, this too, somehow, became the accepted norm, and the feeling of termites mining in the marrow of your bones was quickly second nature.

Five is not a fool. He understands all too well what that moulded him into. Arrogant, prideful, haughty, pompous, vile descriptors of a boy who thought he knew everything but in truth knew absolutely nothing.

It was this that drove him out that day, that zenith of toxic emotions that finally popped and overflowed like a bottle of soda shaken too hard before it is opened.

Then, the apocalypse.

A bitter, sour, horrific pill to swallow. A very literal consequence of his own weakness, his own limitations, his faults that crack so wide the entire world had fallen straight through.

Waking up daily to face your inability was the hardest knock to anyone’s ego.

Following that came the Commission, and the minefield that was their manipulation. Sometimes Five found himself watching the new recruits, those poor souls scooped out of their personal hells to be groomed into spawns of Satan, conducting the Devil’s work with pure hands only to be baptised in that which is thicker than water.

Many would probably say his status within the organisation inflated his bruised ego, like a patch across the hole, a plaster on a cut, a lid on a tub.

Yes, to some extent, being given a purpose again, a drive, a hint of the flavour of achieving his goals, had done his pride wonders, but at the same time it had also numbed him. Killing is never a gracious job, no matter who you are, and it is hard to become that selfish little boy when you are watching the lights of people’s eyes flicker out day after day after day.

But the anger remained.

The anger always remained.

Five allowed it to, practically nursing it within his empty soul. Anger protected him, it was his shield against every failure that was his life, every jab and poke and sneer that was sent his way. The anger kept him going, kept him warm, it sealed over the splits that began to tear down his arms, keeping him whole like reems of tape.

When Klaus had called him an addict, all those weeks ago, it had been true.

Only, the apocalypse was never his addiction.

It was not the pills, or the drink, or the sounds of guns firing and bullets splitting skulls in two. It was not the stench of thick blood, warm and red, staining his clothes beyond salvage. It was not the adrenaline of taking down ten guys twice his size in the blink of an eye or seeing the shock and horror as he slit their throats.

Five had an addiction, and his addiction was his anger at himself. The anger that forced him to push his abilities until he went too far. The anger that made him scream across barren, lifeless lands. The anger that took the lives of so many others.

The funny thing about addictions is, there is only so long before an intervention.

So, when Klaus fixes him with a look and states, “Ok, so, don’t be mad…” Five knows this will not end well.  
They are hovering on the staircase like some kind of cheesy sitcom scene where they all sit down and discuss their feelings. Without fully meaning to Five is bristling, his shoulders rising around him as he takes a step back, bumping into Allison who places her hands on him arms, keeping him there.

So, _this_ is why Allison joined him at the park, to herd him home.

He smiles, the one that never fails to unnerve them. “I’m already mad. Explain.”

Which kind of mad he means, Five does not know.

Klaus continues, “We’ve been talking, the six of us,” He gestures to the rest of their siblings, as if there were any other people he could be talking about, “And we thought-”

“Thought _what_ , Klaus?”

Five should not be doing this. They are worried about him; they are his _family_. They have all been doing so well in talking, in speaking through their issues and trying to resolve things the way healthy adults do. In a way that is so foreign to Five that it literally makes his insides recoil from the shock of it.

But he cannot help himself. Years of habit and paranoia make Five’s metaphorical castle bridge crank up with a lightning speed, the gates shutting and locking before he barely has a chance to analyse the situation and absorb what he is experiencing. If Five’s mind if a castle, then his siblings are the attacking force, and there is a reason why castles were made to defend.

His centre is nothing anyone should see.

“Five,” Vanya sighs, in that way he is always receptive to. “We’re not attacking you.”

Behind her Luther crosses his arms, then seems to think better of it and uncrosses them, awkwardly putting them behind his back before changing his mind again and leaving them hanging limply at his side. Diego, higher up on the stairs, roll his eyes as their brother’s pathetic attempt to try and seem unintimidating.

Five’s lip twitches, but he keeps his jaws firmly clamped together.

Allison hums behind him. “We just want to help you, the same way you did with Vanya.” She squeezes his shoulders. “It’s just us, Five. If anyone is going to understand, it’s us.”

Five’s been telling them his issues from day one. He is a killer. He is trapped inside an infant body. He had to survive the apocalypse for forty-five years. He found their corpses aged only thirteen.

None of them have understood. Not in the slightest.

He struggles to wiggle out from Allison’s hands, but her grip tightens, keeping them in place as she mutters a soft, “Please, Five.”

Please Five what? Please Five, reiterate everything we already know, just so we can be confused again? Please Five, have another stupid breakdown while drunk so we can scribble notes on you and your behaviour? Please Five, say something to Klaus so he can bitch about you behind your back some more?

The sensation of emotional exhaustion is not unfamiliar.

Today, Five thinks, he does not have the energy for it.

So, he jumps.

He feels Allison’s hands flinch back as if burned, a harsh hiss on her lips, but he lands safely outside his bedroom door, the sounds of his sibling’s displeasure echoing down the corridors. 

Ignoring it, Five steps into his room, turning on his heel to firmly lock the door behind him. If they have any sense, they will take this as an obvious hint and leave him in peace.

Behind him, something makes a noise, something _living._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when this fic was just about Five's relationship with food? Welp, now we're analysing his addiction to his own anger!
> 
> This is what happens when you write what you think will be a oneshot and don't stop.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end, folks

Years of experience mean Five does not freeze in that deadly, deer-in-the-headlights manner, but he does feel his body stiffen, poised, ready and willing to take on whatever and whoever is there.

Trying to get a jump on a retired assassin is never a solid train of thought to follow. They are too tied to the job, like hunting hounds who still snap to attention at the whistle of their masters, and lifelong habits die as hard as the cockroaches that scuttled their way through the apocalypse.

His hand still clasping the door handle, Five carefully tilts his head, peering out the corner of his eye at the undefined mass sat at the end of his bed, wiggling but making no move to approach. It is too small to be human, unless a random child has managed to break into the mansion, and the threat of danger significantly reduces to a level Five is more comfortable with.

After a moment, the thing makes a soft huffing noise.

His body stiffens again, this time for a completely different reason, and a bubble of a laugh threatens to spill.

That had better not be what he _fucking thinks it is._

A cold, suspicious dread clenching at his stomach, he turns slowly, his gaze instantly snapping onto the soppy-looking dog sprawled across the floor, stretched out like it owns the place and perfectly at home.

He stares at it, uncomprehending.

A beat passes.

And then another.

And then another.

Five growls. “Why the _fuck_ is there a dog in my room?”

“Klaus thought it’d be a good idea.”

Managing to not startle as Ben wafts through his walls to materialise beside him, Five prides himself on how piercing his glare is, boring holes into Ben’s nonchalant expression. It is the one he used to silence his targets when they started blubbing for their lives, and it never failed to halt the lines of drivel people spewed in their final moments.

If there was one thing he could never stand, it was the begging, especially after years of silence.

However, nearly a lifetime of being a ghost has only hardened his once meeker brother, who fails to wilt in the same manner Klaus, Vanya, or Allison might.

Diego would too, given the correct circumstances.

The beast sits up during the exchange, its tail wagging as it looks between him and Ben, mouth hanging open and tongue just poking out from its jaw in a manner that makes it appear content, as if it has been living there its whole life.

Five takes in a deep breath. It does little to calm him as he speaks through his teeth, “You just said _Klaus_ and _good idea_ in the same sentence. Perhaps you wish to rethink your excuse?”

Snorting, Ben squats down, gaining the interest of the mutt. Its ears perk, and after a bit of encouragement from Ben wanders over, nails clicking on the floor.

It is not an unattractive dog, but by no means would be winning any awards either, with its thick fur, dopey face, and slightly disproportionate feet. As it trots forward for an affectionate pat, Five’s gaze is caught by the bright red harness on its back, similar to the ones he has seen on trained dogs out in public.

Oh.

_Oh._

As reliable as the wind, the anger returns, running sharp nails on the underside of his skin like some untethered monster, scratching deep, gruesome grooves into his flesh. His fists tighten involuntarily, his knuckles straining from the effort and threatening to burst out into open air. Five can feel his bones crunching.

Sensing his growing rage, Ben glances up at him, pulling a face at the dangerous scowl Five sends back, his eyes practically dancing with stars from how hard he clenches his jaw. The dog notices too, in an odd, head tilted manner, and it shuffles over to sit on his shoes.

“Five…” Ben starts, standing and wiping off his jeans as if a dog could leave hair on a ghost. “Five, this isn’t meant to be an insult-”

His voice rises with mock laughter. “ _Isn’t meant-_ ”

“Asking for help, it’s not weakness.” Ben pushes through, reaching out to lightly rest a hand on his shoulder. The dog starts licking at his fingers, before pushing its mussel into his palm. “Klaus did it, Vanya did it, everyone here has talked to someone. You should, too.”

The part of Five that naturally recoils at softness, the one that made him shove away Klaus last night, ignore the quietly concerned glances from Vanya, twist away from Allison’s squeeze, is back, whispering in his ear, hissing at him to move, to bite, to snap, to push and shove and kill anything that offers him the slightest breath of kindness. 

He does not deserve it. Why would he? The things Five has done mean he will never get a taste of Heaven, even if those things were done with the goal of good. In the end, everything he meets gets stained red, the world when he jumped forward, the thousands of victims he eradicated when he worked with the Commission, his family. 

All those years spent in the apocalypse, all that time vowing to come back and protect the world, protect _them_ , and what happens? Klaus was kidnapped, Luther, Allison, and Diego all went rounds against Hazel and Cha-Cha, and Vanya got groomed by the world’s worst bastard. Even Dolores was shot at, her blouse littered with ugly bullet holes and scorch marks on her waist.

Five kills and harms everything he touches.

That is just what happens. That is just what _always_ happens.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” It comes out as a croak, a tired, weak little thing that makes him want to vomit then and there. His eyes meet Ben’s, searching for that hesitation he always meets, that moment when he realises that no one will listen to him, when no one will understand.

He does not see it, only his reflection.

“I know.” Ben says, softly, simply, without that sickly pity that everyone smothers him with. “I know. Selective hearing seems to be a family trait. _They_ know it too, Five, they’re trying to be better.”

“By cornering me on the stairs?”

Ben scrunches his nose at that. “Key word is _trying_ , I think.”

He turns away, physically fighting his face so it does not crumple as something small, lost, broken, seeps out from the depths like a cracked blister. It _hurts_ , an old wound reopening, stitches being pulled apart, the seams splitting and spilling the innards. The dog leans its weight against his legs, and without thinking he plays with one of its ears, running his nail gently along the soft fur.

Five is not well.

The thought pokes him in the back of the shoulder, sudden and unforgiving in its bluntness. It does not let up, either, ringing over and over in his brain, as loud as a megaphone and towering above him in such a way that he feels all too much like that little boy, stranded with his own broken mind and shattered thoughts.

Five is not well and has not been for a long time.

The eating issues were just a symptom, really, a neon error sign trying to flash in front of his eyes while Five continues to bury everything else down, where he could not see it, or hear it, or think upon it. You can only squash things for so long before they spilled over, like stuffing too much into a suitcase. 

Developing unhealthy eating habits just happened to be the thing that popped out the other side when he sat on the case and flicked the locks.

Five’s appetite has left for greener pastures, yes, but that does not give him an excuse to go almost full days without consuming anything, either. He tells himself he knows the vitamins are not a meal, that they are just boosts to give himself what he needs while he struggles to eat, yet he hid them away, made them his dark, terrible secret, allowed it to morph to the extent that his family thought he had taken to drugs to get through his issues.

His apocalypse is gone, and all that remains is a husk of a man who no longer knows how to function.

Perhaps it is the reminisce of his hangover from the night before, perhaps it is the several emotional outbursts he has experienced in the last twenty-four hours, perhaps it is the fact that on his feet is something living and breathing and anything but a lifeless, rubble-covered corpse, but in that moment, in that very second, he wants to do nothing more than to cry.

Cry for his childhood ripped away in one bad mistake.

Cry for the years and years and _years_ he spent alone, with nothing but ash and bugs and Dolores for company.

Cry for the people he executed without a second thought, simply because someone said so.

Cry for his disjointed relationships with his family, and for the weeks he has spent feeling babied and emotional and out of place. For the times that he missed while he was away, Ben’s death, Klaus’ struggle, Claire’s birth. For the shock he still feels at waking up in a bed, surrounded by the sounds of human beings and being able to breathe cool, clean air. For being unable to finish a single plate of food.

Sinking to the ground, Five ignores the way Ben calls his name, landing crossed-legged with a thud on the hard floor. The dog jumps back a bit to get out his way, but once he is down it strolls up to half-lay across his lap, tail swishing as its head rests on Five’s thigh.

Dolores would tell him that he needs to get help, that he _deserves_ to get help, that locking himself away and keeping his issues bundled in his gut is harmful and no longer the life he needs to live. She would tell him to stop with the harshness he spits at everyone and everything, including himself. She would tell him to allow Klaus to care, to let him try and do something helpful for his brother. 

It is more than anyone has ever done for him.

Next time they meet, Five is certain he is going to get an earful in that beautiful, heart-breaking way she always does, because she gets so upset when Five does this, when Five shuts her and his family out.

She wants him to move on.

Five is vaguely aware of Ben leaving and the fact that his arms are wrapped tightly around the dog’s neck. The vest makes a funny, crinkling noise as the dog shifts to be in a more comfortable position, panting softly.

He stays like that for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: Klaus, Diego, Luther, and Allison, in the chapter 14:
> 
> “Shit, is that Five on that bench?”
> 
> “He’s going to see the dog!”
> 
> “Allison, go talk to him!”
> 
> “What? Why me?”
> 
> “Distract him while we get the dog home!”
> 
> “I just rumoured a guy to get that dog so we don’t have to spend forever on a waiting list, I’m done for the day!”
> 
> “Please! Pretty please! He’ll only get angry with us, and Vanya isn’t here!”
> 
> “Please, Allison.”
> 
> “Ugh, fine. But you owe me.”
> 
> “Love you too, sis!”
> 
> Also,
> 
> Me: Ha-ha! I’ll write something vague and daunting at the end of the last chapter, everyone will think there is something terrible in Five’s room!
> 
> Everyone: MR PENNYCRUMB!!
> 
> Me: …..How the mcfrick??
> 
> Also, also,
> 
> When I said everything was not as it seemed? Yeah, it was deluding to the ‘Allison rumouring to get the dog’. I was worried people would really latch onto the excuse she made up and wanted to slightly dissipate it a bit. So, um, sorry for worrying everyone a bit more than intended?? At least this is a NICE 'not as it seems'. It turns out I can do fluff.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good (and painful) things must come to an end

When they were about seven, maybe eight, Diego and Luther formed an unlikely bond over junk TV survival shows.

To Five, they were overblown, overdone, and overrated. He proceeded to tell his siblings as much, earning glares and perfectly-aimed objects thrown at his head. Luckily for him, he is the master of dodging, much to his amusement and their chagrin.

But his brothers enjoyed them, so for as much as he and the rest of his siblings complained, they allowed it, sitting through the terrible theme tunes and fashionista hosts until it was their turn to wield the remote.

Klaus went for reality TV, which caught the interest of Allison. Not always, but if survival programmes did it for Diego and Luther, then competitive modelling did it for them. As far as it was from anyone else’s preferences, they did, admittedly, all get a kick at watching a household filled with bitchy, back-stabbing people spend weeks failing to walk in heels, trip down catwalks, and wear gowns made from literal garbage.

When it was not those shows, Allison liked the celebrity interviews, and would doodle in her journal pretend questions and answers between her and whichever interviewer she had taken a shine to that week. 

Ben always went for science, which suited Five just fine. More often than not, it would send Klaus and Luther to sleep, meaning they could enjoy the majority of the programme in relative peace, barring the odd comment from Diego.

Vanya liked music, so she would always quietly request the channels that ran concerts, and if there were none she would simply going for the radio instead. It was probably one of the few times that his siblings ever sat to listen to the genre, having all independently developed all their own tastes. Needless to say, Vanya was the only one in the family who really appreciated classical. He and Ben would dip a toe in occasionally, but never more than that.

Five sits in his room, and somewhere downstairs, a theme tune starts.

The dog momentarily tilts its head to listen, but quickly settles right back into his arms, laying gently against his chest and panting. Five watches as its gaze shifts about, looking up at Five, and then towards the door, and then to the bed, and then back again, its tail never pausing as it polishes the floor.

He snorts, releasing the mutt and allowing it to sit upright next to him, running a hand along the fur of its back.

“Y’know, when I was a kid, Luther and Diego used to love that shit.” Jerking his head towards the door and the noise, Five frowns in distaste. “It’s as terrible as I remember.”

The dog being a dog and comprehending little of human speech, it simply sniffs at him, watching Five as he speaks but holding no real understanding. Making a ‘tsk’ noise behind his teeth, Five continues to run his fingers through its fur, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Unlike Dolores, it seemed he was not going to get any riveting conversation out of this thing.

Pulling away, Five allows his head to fall forward into his hands, burying his face into his palms. 

He has two choices.

Either he accepts the dog, which means in turn accepting the fact that he is unwell and that his family want to help him, or he kicks the dog out and allows himself to refuse all concern flung like rotten tomatoes his way.

Open gate or closed gate.

Weak or denial.

Healthy or unhealthy.

In truth, he hates both, and in a perfect world he could simply go about his business undeterred and unaffected by a lifetime of failures. In a perfect world, he would have never time travelled, and continued to have lived out the rest of his life alongside his siblings, watching them grow and become the people they are today. In a perfect world, they would have realised that Vanya was special, that she deserved to be there, and that none of them should be singled out, tossed aside, and forgotten.

He cannot decide if this perfect world should include Dad’s scavenger hunt across the world for random babies, because if it did not, then they would never have been siblings, and Five does not want to think about their birth mothers and the unopened closet of emotions that comes with that.

But the world is far from perfect, and it is wrong of him of all people to long for one so.

Five knows he cannot go on like this, a breaking point can and will be reached soon and there is only so much a single person can take before they hit the limitations of what they can survive. He has already been forced to endure so much, at some point his luck, or skill, or whatever the hell it is keeping him alive, will run dry.

However, talking it out on a couch while someone makes notes is not just out of his league, it is on the other side of the goddamn universe. 

The idea of it makes his skin itch, as if his family were going to find an old scar and peel him open. Even as children, as toddlers who did not comprehend the complexities around them, he was never the child to run to their nannies, never the one who spilled all their perceived woes.

He can feel the dog shuffle about beside him, and Five peers up blearily to find it on its feet, investigating the smells on his sweater sleeve.

The choice is, really, when he thinks about it and does not allow himself to bury it down, very simple.

He is either alone, or with his family. 

That is that, Five cannot put it any more bluntly. Isolation or inclusion, solitary or together, two sides of a scale he wishes he did not have to weight.

But he is _so sick_ of being alone.

The loneliness hurts, it breaks, it snaps everything in two and leaves no shattered pieces in its wake. It leaves his chest hollow and empty, no shards left to glue together as thoughts whirl around in his own head, desperate for sound, for touch, for comfort.

Solitary confinement breaks the best of men. 

Five does not want to be broken anymore.

Leaning back, he closes his eyes, a watery smile playing at the corners of his lips though he feels no real amusement. “Guess that’s that, then.”

The dog says nothing, obviously, and Five reaches out to rub the spot between its ears, ignoring the way his fingers tremble as they do. It earns him a pleased noise, the dog leaning into the touch happily. 

Right.

Well then.

“Guess we gotta face the music.”

Five is an adult, after all. There is only so long he can get away with hiding in his bedroom before they all come poking and prodding. If Five is going to do this, is going to commit in a way that would make Dolores proud, then he needs to take that first step. Start his rehab journey, so to speak.

This does not mean he stops shaking, however.

The dog follows him out the room, ambling beside him at his heels as Five follows the theme music through the otherwise quiet house, the symbols and drums still as eccentric and stupid as they were all those years ago. Together they descend the stairs, the vest still making the crinkling noise as the dog moves.

Ending up in the foyer, Five’s ear hones him in on the half-open door to the main living room, where he can hear his siblings chatting about things unimportant.

Sitting, the dog looks up, waiting patiently as Five hesitates, his hands naturally fisting until its painful and holding his breath as if that alone will keep them from knowing he is there. 

Ben is probably watching him, with the stupid proud smirk he always used to send Five when he had somehow managed to one-up Dad.

He flinches when a hot tongue presses against his fingers, and with a delayed blink Five finds himself on his knees again, though unlike last time this is less collapsing under the grief of realisation and more squatting to pet his dog.

One of his hands catches the tag hanging from its collar, and he absently reads it over, a frown, and then an idea, forming.

His eyes catch the dogs, and he sucks in a gulp of air. “Over the trench we go.” He whispers to it. “Meet me in there.”

With that he jumps, landing just in front of the bar and taking in at the sight of his siblings gathered around the old portable TV propped up on a stack of books. 

Klaus is lounging across the entirely of the couch, with Diego perched on the arm by his feet. Vanya and Allison have opted for armchairs near the fireplace, their backs to Five’s hideous portrait, and Luther sits crossed-legged on the floor by Klaus’ head, holding his knees as he taps along to the theme, perfectly imitating the explosions in complete sync.

Crossing his arms, Five puts on his best unimpressed face. “I am not calling my dog _Bud_.” He states, making them all startle, “It’s pathetic.”

All eyes turn to him, one pair at a time, and then towards the dog as it pushes through the door and wanders in, strolling over to Luther to investigate the no-doubt confusing smells that must come from the man.

Sitting up, Klaus, as easy and as understanding as ever, smiles. “Alright, what are you going to name him then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!!
> 
> Thank you everyone for joining this little fic that got wildly out of hand, hope you all enjoyed reading, even if you were yelling at me for not seeing the show!!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://ancientstone.tumblr.com/)


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